July 8, 2011 @ 4:45 pm | Filed under:
Poetry 
The bat-poet remembers his earliest days:
…And then the mother dances through the night
Doubling and looping, soaring, somersaulting—
Her baby hangs on underneath.
All night, in happiness, she hunts and flies.
Her high sharp cries
Like shining needlepoints of sound
Go out into the night and, echoing back,
Tell her what they have touched.
She hears how far it is, how big it is,
Which way it’s going:
She lives by hearing.
More Poetry Friday posts: Wild Rose Reader
More Bat-Poet moments
Rose petal, rock, leaf, bat
Her bat mood
July 8, 2011 @ 6:33 am | Filed under:
Photos 
Huck and Rilla are next to me on the sofa—it’s just past dawn here, and Sesame Street is on—a tangle of limbs and hair. Grabbing each other’s faces and shouting “Eee! Oh!” at each other, for no particular reason. This is one of my favorite sights in the world: small children rolling around like puppies. In my first La Leche League group when Jane was a baby, all the moms would sit in a circle with the babies tumbled on the floor in the middle. They were like lobsters in a tank—an inelegant simile, I know, but that’s what they always made me think of, including the wanting to eat them all up.
Bonus giraffe-in-a-blue-dress photo:
The bat-poet remembers his earliest days:
