Let us begin at slant-light
with cut felt flickers, 
unhooding cubic skulls, 
furtive and hungry.

Trace our loopy symmetries
beneath the canopy as we feed, 
follow our dance with open faces -
long diverged from the birds.

You cannot hear us but you’ll feel
our hunting song across your teeth
defiling the laws of physics
with frequencies beyond this.

Watch our velvet forms take on
three dimensions or four
as we vanish into sky space, 
a filigree of apple tree 

bursting into fret-work, 
scraps of jinking balsa, 
flicking the Vs, skimming
odd quick trajectories.

We are fickle as kits,
wombed and jewelled
with kidneys, ovaries, 
rows of studded teats. 

Born to kill, we are strung
on struts of steel; dissolve
in darkness to anti-matter, 
turning widdershins,

bewilderingly separate, 
a tapestry of gremlin flight
angling on planes of sound,
almost sightless, blind-to-green.

Turn your ears towards us,
bearing truths in our pitch and fall;
forest-worlds and gardens returned
in sonic negative, transformed.

Hold us in dry hands
when you find us in the woods,
stroke our underbellies
with something approaching tenderness.

FullEd Scolding