Or we could leave the house, the pressure

of its walls and light, its hard words

bumbling against the windows,

and go down to the gully where the creek-bank

collapses with the autumn rains, something

you could fall for and put your lips to.

Come on, bring the mattock for the thistles;

hold it between us if you wish.
We won’t know what makes them

unwrap the bandaged thumbs of their bodies

and bear away from the canopy

the moment the day’s balance tips towards night;

we won’t decipher their insect-seeking sonar,

or tally the number of beetles they catch

and the number they miss.

Yet these little crepuscular bats,

flying by hand, led by their petalled noses,

have us mesmerised in the spiky pea,

motionless, transported. 
Scouts sent ahead of the night, detachments

from dark like escaped pocket linings,

one is suddenly there, a sharp dip and yaw

over the paddock, then gone; there

and gone, a relay of presence and absence.

They’re our mystery and guesswork;

their flickering fly-past in the half-light is enough

to make us question the worth of seeing clearly

and settle for partial blindness; enough,

when it’s time to go in, to make you

shift the mattock to the other hand.