My neighbor has a beautiful old barn shot through with holes. Sunlight flows through these holes as if placing a spotlight on each individual tool, a shovel or rake, a hammer and crowbar allowed to lie on the floor as if too exhausted having performed its task so well it cannot climb to its allotted peg on the ancient walls. Disarray. It’s lovely. The bats like this barn. Upside down in the rafters they peer through the holes in the roof, keep an eye on the moon careful to stay clear of the light that pools on the scented straw where deer wander in from the vineyard to sleep a spell always up and away before my neighbor wakes. My neighbor would like to be rid of the bats and their guano, but they refuse to leave, no matter what she does. Like the swallows of San Juan Capistrano, they always return. Every night in summer I wait for them to emerge. A small pointillist cloud. Spots of ink disperse, reappear, as a spiral, a caterpillar, a triangle, sometimes a butterfly.