Kell Robertson


Bats rattling
through the trees.
Vast clouds of them
in the dark.

We sit around
our small fire
drink whiskey
and tell stories
making ourselves
into legendary figures.

Jim says,
you can’t shoot a bat
in the air, says
they dodge the bullets.

We empty our pistols
into a cloud of bats
next morning find
no dead bats.

But there’s a drop of blood
on a rock. I suppose we
hit something
in the air maybe
that’s what heros are

Drunken fools blasting away
at bats in the darkness,
a drop of blood
fading away on a stone.


One thought on “OF BATS AND DRUNKS

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