when the dark starts

in staccato chirp, whir of
hunting bats calling
to the strange insects
not name by name
they feel for a presence in the air
while
moths puff like syllables of incantations
feathered toward any light at all

with a blur junebugs suddenly appear
like portly magicians
then bumble close upon the window screen
like so many failed houdinis
they bounce along interstices

(oh the space between us
is so hard to understand
sometimes)

one by one each plant
calls down the water from the air
linden ash fern and grass
and
what are the things
that we cannot name
and can we tell the tone of our call returned?