Near midnight, caught in our pajamas, we
corral the beast inside our dining room;
there, clutching window screens as makeshift shields,
we track that dark intruder's daunting spirals.
"What's the matter with that bat?" I shout,
each time it blunders by a blatant doorway
or yawning window, "Are you blind! Get out!"
Suddenly — it drops below the table
(where I resist the urge to whack, to kill),
then swoops around, again, so close to us
we almost feel its chilling flight beneath
our wobbly knees — to flee the glaring light
and buzz mosquitoes in a boundless night.