The Bat

The bat looks lost, desperate for refuge from morning
as it swoops the garden in and out of the gazebo
where I sit worried more for it than for me.
It had bunked several nights in a closed umbrella,
its detritus on the table below revealing its stay
motivating me to unfurl the canopy last evening
to dissuade a return. I did not expect the revenge
of a movie monster but here it sweeps again
through the columns and again and again
and again until it lands on the rafter opposite.
It draws together wings and limbs to secure darkness
against the day, careless of one who it already knows
from the lines on this page will not evict it once more.