May is wearing its veil of petals like a gambler,
apple orchard sated with fruit. I find a bat listless
& startled. If this were China, 10,000 years happiness.
This is Southern California, formerly Mexico,
formerly tierra with a pure focus – man, coyote, moon.
As a child I woke early to watch camps of bats
create dark eddies against the first crack
of summer light. Being alone is what life gives you,
I rumor. Being lonely is the venom of cynics, it trembles.
The sleek wings, tiny curtains, folding in
this day, making it night. And its delicate face,
so tiny, you might miss the intricate features
of a wee-god, the chiaroscuro of suffering,
regal, deep-knowing, the apple days over.