I saw this headline in the Washington Post this morning:
“We’re watching a potential extinction event on the order of what we experienced with bison and passenger pigeons for this group of mammals.” Mylea Bayless, conservation programs manager for Bat Conservation International
I love bats, the acrobats of summer dusks. D.H. Lawrence describes them well:
xBats that fly around in the winter are doomed, even when they don’t have white-nose. They use up fat reserves stored for the winter and starve because the bugs they eat are hibernating.
By Randall Jarrell
A bat is born
Naked and blind and pale
His mother makes a pocket of her tail
And catches him. He clings
to her long fur
By his thumbs and toes and teeth.
And then the mother dances through the night
Doubling and looping,
Her baby hangs on
All night, in happiness,
She hunts and flies.
Her high sharp cries
Like shining needlepoints of sound
Go out into the night and
Tell her what they have touched.
She hears how far it is,
how big it is,
which way it’s going:
She lives by hearing.
The mother eats the moths and gnats
In full flight, In full flight.
The mother drinks the water of the pond,
She skims across,
Her baby hangs on tight.
Her baby drinks the milk she makes him.
In moonlight or starlight,
Their single shadow,
printed on the moon
Or fluttering across the stars,
Whirls on all night.
the tired mother flaps home to her rafter
The others all are there.
They hang themselves up by their toes,
They wrap themselves in their brown wings.
Bunched upside down, they sleep in air.
Their sharp ears,
Their sharp teeth
Their quick sharp faces
Are dull and slow and mild.
All the bright day, as the mother sleeps,
She folds her wings about her sleeping child.