waiting for dark

a small
fisted bat has found it's
way
between the wood
and rail,
the downspout, his black
hinged
claws
clings tight
to keep his charred
body
off the ground,
out of
sight.
not a sound he makes,
not a flutter
of wing,
or growl.
no twitch is shown
in his veined thin
shell
of life.
he's waiting for dark
to fly,
as we all are.