Acrobats



Now air is hushed, save where the weak-ey'd bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
    Or where the beetle winds
    His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

-William Collins (1721-1759),
Ode to Evening







images © 2000 by Randy Wang
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