Читать книгу The Heronry - Mark Jarman - Страница 9

Bat

I remember the Sierra pond

where at evening bats went dipping,

pilgrims with sharp chins dipping

to holy water, preying

on mosquitoes as if praying.

I watched them envying their purpose,

wanting at twenty some purpose.

Snap the hatchling as it rises,

skim the darkness as it rises.

I wanted that perfected arc,

hunting life along an arc,

both creature and creator.

What is it now about the creature

appearing at a sudden angle,

wavering through dusk, angel

of hunger at the night’s rim,

like a card flicked at a hat brim?

Now I read it like an icon

blinking on a screen and ken

something there that’s meaningful,

a little void that’s never full.