When that first charcoal colored bat flew across the sky, I mistook it for a bird.
Soon enough there were hoards of them,
And then the evening skyline was studded with multitudes of black.
Meanwhile, the last fellow was trying to catch up with its mates.
The way it stretched its arched flaps, created ripples,
and a gust of wind brushed against my cheeks.
You know how rustics call them creatures of the night!
I could swear in that moment that they were following trails of the remnant sunlight.
And even though my genial senses deny all my assumptions,
I can’t help but wonder, what was up with the last bat?
Because even as I’m preparing my regular decaf,
I feel so occupied, I may have slipped in extra cubes of sugar.
Amid one of its daydream,
Grey (I nicknamed him) must have seen the mighty eagle march across the sky.
Or possibly seen the pelican take a deep dive into the water,
Munch and prepare for another one.
Or met the crow I remember from sophomore year in college,
The one who regularly visited my balcony (and apparently belted queer notes).
Or maybe not.
It’s my first time in this place, so I don’t quite know the birds here.
But affirmative, my new friend Grey will tell me a lot.
Because from the balcony where I stand,
the horizon looks so much clearer.
And I know Grey has plans to break-free, fly in the sanguine sunrise,
catch worms and dive into rivers.
And at night when he returns to describe how freedom feels like,
I’m hopeful I’ll get my coffee right.