There’s a bat circling
in the early dark, between
the pine tree, the spruce and the maple.
He seems happy enough gobbling
up hundreds of mosquitoes on each turn around.
But maybe it’s Dracula.
You have to think about that.
Maybe Dracula doesn’t transform himself
into bat; instead maybe the bat becomes Dracula.
He has to go home soon,
put on his little suit and tie
and wander around the empty castle
muttering to himself in a strange accent.
And later, of course, there will be guests for dinner.