Maybe it was the city dreaming me.

In the dugout basement
of a torn down house
an armadillo sized bat
lumbered toward me.

The bat feigned attack
then tried to back away.
First instinct flashed
lightning fast hands

to the short hot neck
for a quick breaking.
A given soft underbelly
and the limp exposed
body spoke volumes.
A well known tongue
of timeless trustings.
I released her then
into the basement
of our Lexington home
and she smoothed herself
into a painted  glyph
and closed her eyes. 
Mine had been opened 
to a beautiful dream.
It lives still, as do we, as does hope.