Bats are falling out of the night sky, fluttering and crashing to the ground: wet and sloppy, dry and crispy bats describing various, unwholesome trajectories to the ground.
The wet ones crash suddenly, slappily, sticking to car windows, bike tyres, upturned faces. They are kamikaze corpses, smacking into any flat surface too slow or too stationary to move aside. Their slick and slippery vengeance is taken for the crime of being under them when they fell, and they adhere to the perpetrators like guilt.
The dry ones float crazily, spinning and whispering, bullied by the wind currents that the wet ones refused to be dictated to by. Watching them whilst travelling is an invitation to disaster and injury: their route is unpredictable, unknowable and too beguiling to watch.
So many are falling, more each night, that every bike ride and walk in the rainy, windy evening is a bat-corpse slalom, the strangest dodge-game I’ve ever played at night, in Berlin