I was almost asleep so I thought the rustling above me
was part of a dream, one where I was shuffling through
dry Autumn leaves and cicada shells, but with a bang
and a squeak, I opened my eyes, somehow knowing
not to sit up but to burrow underneath my blankets
and slip onto the floor, where I crawled towards the door,
all the while yelling, my voice catching, There’s a bat in here.
Later, there was laughter about how it made its way
downstairs to the living room where the family cat
stood on its hind legs swinging its paws wildly in the air,
how my brother armed himself with a fishing net,
my mother, oven mitts, to track the bat down, when finally
someone thought to simply open the front door and it flew free.
What I remember most was creeping down the stairs
when I thought I was safe and watching the small creature cling
to the front porch banister, the same way I had grasped
my blankets tight over my head, afraid to emerge, not knowing
if there was safety or new unknown dangers ahead.
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