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And a mundane Thursday to boot

They go for the angophoras I think
A tiny colony lives there
Squeaking in the dead of night
Where the dog that daytime
barked incessantly barks no more
not because of any act of mine
they've just moved on
I guess

Two towering
flowering specimens
there nearby their home
the flowers their food
how does a mother flying fox
instruct her brood
to hang from the lowest wire
I wonder

For as days pass
and they achieve
that exact length
to touch kiss and festoon
the power lines
clutching the upper
and caressing the lower
barely one year of four

One kept me company for years
Walking home from work at night
down that undulating hill
past this year's dry carcasses.
He on silent leathery wings
from tree to tree
then veered off to the left and home
as I entered the cul de sac

Good night he squeaked
Etched against the oyster evening sky

Embedded image from another site
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Posted: Sep 3
About this poem:
Simple enough, a small flying fox colony next door but one or two

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