Of the eleven-hundred brands of bats,
none is a mouse with wings, except in dream
where fiction floats on fact akin to cream,
where alligators swim in sewers, and rats
as big as brontosauruses tree cats.
I have none, though my puppy makes me beam
when he is being whacky. Do I deem
him smarter than the ants crossing the mats
and rugs around my porch? I guess somewhat.
But aren’t all creatures brilliant—like the crew
of bees that throng my garden? Scents have told
them where the goodies are, each buzzing sot
bombed out on sweets, some ultraviolet hue
drawing her onward toward the hidden gold.
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