Like a crowd drawn by a medium’s promise,
We stand in hopeful half-belief and listen.
The ratatat, when it comes, is real enough.
These floaters, these quakelets of dark
Are what we seek.

By the time we reach the lake
The detector’s crackling. A late-night jogger
Turns back on hearing our incantation:
Pipistrelle. Noctule. Natterer’s. Daubenton’s.

Next day, as I type, the rattling recalls
Those hidden signals, searching in the night.