The bats fly overhead, winning their easy battle with the possums and rats in the fig tree, the bats take what is theirs, for everything in the night is theirs…They pick their battlefield wisely and naturally. I try to take flight on their dark wings…channel their blind direction of travel.
It wont work, and I get thrown back to my pew in the chill and rain here in the garden, with the echo of a whisper in my ears…
‘Seek your own kin who you feel as our wings flapping in the darkness, always towards…always onwards…’
The Bats speak and I listen, though I know I am putting words in their snouts and I figure more that they are telling me to…
“Seek nothing but Honest.
Spend time in the tree and leave and bush form of this,
But you need to find the human forms of the same,
You need to find the wilderness in your own tribe,
for in this life, you will never be the weasel or wombat or thunder you aspire towards.
So seek those who inspire, who are driven, who have the right flames burning always…
Seek the fanatics, seek those not unafraid, but unwilling to be anything other than themselves.
There is your Thunder and Lightning and Weasel and Wombat and Lupine Howl.
Now scurry on, human heart and mangled snout boy,
run with the wolves in the wind,
speak to the fish when you glide over the sand and the rain softly falls from above and you are naked in the bay,
and keep this feeling, when you are back amongst the land locked…
You WILL find beauty in the most unexpected of places”