Bats at the Library

Today, we're reading baths at the library written and illustrated by Brian lies. Another inky evenings here, the air is cool and calm and clear. We feasted flooded, swooped and soared. And yet. We're still a little bored. All this sameness leaves this blue. And makes us ache for something new. Then word spreads quickly from afar. Uh, window has been left a jar. Can it be true? Oh, can it be. Yes. That night. At the library. The sky is lively as we raced together toward our favorite place. Eager wings, beat autumn air. Look, that's it. We're almost there. Then squeezed together, wing to wing. We rocket through the opening. We've waited for this night all year, but this is it At last. We're here. for most old bats, this isn't new. They've got lots of things to do. They'll flutter off and lose themselves among the books lined up on shelves. Other bats in munchie moods, we'll study guides to fancy foods, or hang out by a lamp instead to talk about the books they've read. But little bats will have to learn the reason that we must return. The ones who haven't come before, have no idea. What's in store. Some of them will drift away and figure out a game to play like shaping shadows on the wall or wingtip tap around the hall. This big box is loads of fun. Blasting brighter than the sun. Instead of copying books from shelves, we can duplicate ourselves. Doesn't matter where you look, there's nothing like a pop-up book. The fountain water's nice and cool. And makes a splendid swimming pool. Please keep it down. You must behave. This library is not your cave. It's hard to settle down and read when life flits by dizzy speed. But story time is just the thing to rest, to play exhausted wing. And if we listen, we will hear some distant voices drawing near. Louder, louder, louder, still they coax and pull us in until. Everyone old bat or pup has been completely swallowed up. And lives inside a book instead of simply hearing something red. Breathless lost within the tail. No one sees the sky grow pale. What is that light? A lamp. The moon. Our bookish feast. Can't ind so soon. It feels as though we've just begun. But now we leave our books AF done. Through the window into sky it's much too late. We've got to fly. But maybe a librarian will give us bats this chance again. And leave a window open wide To let us share the world inside. For now we'll dream of things. We've read a universe inside each head. Every evening, one and doll we'll listen for that late night call. Can it be true? Oh, can it be? Yes. That night at the library.