Last night, the noise of them coming down the rafters woke me. At first, I thought it was the rumble of squirrels playing. Then some sound--the sound of flying?--told me they weren't squirrels. What the? I turned on the lamp and there were two bats. Now more frightened than confused, maybe blinded, they swooped erratically, rapidly, from wall to wall. It is a small room. We were very close. I backed into the corner of the bed, in the corner of the room, and realized they were trying to find their way out. Soon, one found its way back to the break in the exposed insulation and scrambled away.
The other was still lost. It rested on a wall and we, the bat and I, watched each other for a while. I eased my grip on the knit blanket I'd been clutching. We had a heart to heart about fear and longing.
Or the bat laughed at me.
At my sentimental, my hope in eyes meeting, my personification.
Around the time I wondered whether I could go back to sleep with it still hanging there, it took one final three-point turn (fooling me into thinking it didn't know where it was going), and escaped.
Maybe an hour later, one of them returned. Or maybe another found its way into the hole of my room. I can't be sure. They all look the same to me.
It was a shorter visit though. It's possible we'd already met, that it came back to apologize for laughing at me, to give me fairly standard advice I'd heard before but forgotten.