CRY OF THE BAT
As they fly swiftly through the twilight, here, there, everywhere, their screech is loud but only they themselves can hear it. The tops of trees and barns, dilapidated church spires throw back the echo which heard in flight reports on the kind of obstacles that lie before them and where the way is clear. With their voice removed they are left helpless to find their way; bumping against everything, flying into walls, they drop to the ground, dead. Without voice they are overcome by what otherwise they destroy, now prevailing in increasing numbers: vermin.
in Windy Times, trad. Agnes Stein,
New York: Red Dust, 1983