The first piece I've written in a long time.
Not sure where this poem came from, except we have pipistrelles hunting insects in our garden on some fine evenings.

Little white house on the side of the hill,
Shaded and comfortable,
wooden and painted white.
The modest proportions
ghostly in the evening light.

I stand and watch at its open door,
Pressing my head into the cool smooth frame,
Like a cat cheeking a friendly hand
to scent its territory.
Pipistrelles flitting past,
tiny amiable black arrows.
The delicate evening perfume
of just rained on flowers.

I go inside and shut the door behind
With the fresh breath of air clinging on.