A cornucopia of bats across the sky,
Their wings like moths' own as they fly,
Sleek black skin like fleshy cloth,
Again not unlike that of a moth,
Calls and sonar only they root out,
Obvious to them, as a human's shout,
Mysterious as night's mistress,
Stroking the sky with movements lustrous,
A symphony of flight above,
A sight a person could come to love.
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