I’ve heard how they claim the Congress Street Bridge:

like folded fur handkerchiefs

hundreds hang on the underbelly.

At dusk they swoop out to sport

and poach and cloak the sky

in a great wolfish exodus

of instinct and appetite.

Once I saw dozens darting

in lava lamp shapes among sky scrapers.

One moment, the vertical space was jammed

with only air and traffic sounds,

the next was spelled with their loopy cursives,

their dark Morse Code.

I recall how I roamed with my new love

through a magnolia labyrinth.

We watched a pair of bats knit air,

needling the unraveling light.

Even as shadow and want called us home,

they braided and plaited whatever was to come.