into a sky of lightning

up until this moment
i have never seen a bat yawn
but because there’s this one that sleeps
on my exterior wall under a window pane
and because i couldn’t help but move the hinged-down window just the slightest
to make sure the creature was still alive
the winged wonder awoke and resettled themself (i’m pretty sure ‘themself’ is not a word, but i really do want to stop calling living creatures and elements ‘it’)
yawning once, twice, then a third
exposing the tiniest and very sharpest looking fangs i may have ever seen
the bowl of sweet bing cherries (black)
that i set on the table for lunch
and how i like thinking about how two days ago
i was plucking them from branches in the foothills of the coast range
wind in my hair
and how they traveled through time zones with me
(tucked in my pack as we rode north towards portland, and then as we took off and landed in portland than chicago, and then as i rumbled along on the el and on a bus through the rain and then
as i sidewalked in the drizzles and then as i hurriedly made my way to the brown line
and rocked to its rolling and then walked with the rushed throngs downtown to union station and then
settled myself into a window seat on the amtrak which eventually took us into a sky of lightning and then
tossed in the back seat of the cab of a white toyota that cynthia drove along the curves of county highways and back up the gravel driveway that i left out of two weeks ago)
the unbelievable amount of minutes/hours it takes
to weave tomato branches into trellising and to weave trellising from post to post and to try so hard not to snap a branch but to hiss a curse everytime i do
the new layers added
to the already mighty night chorus:
the long hurts-your-ears high pitch of what i think is called a prairie katydid,
the one off buzzy vibration of what might be grasshoppers,
and the once and a while cicada song


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