Macabre

Barbara Sandquist

The black bats wheel under the rafter,
Their sharp cries falling like mocking laughter
On the still air;

And there, and there
On the death-still air
Lie long red streamers of dusty sun,
And one by one
The slow ants crawl on the darkening floor.
Until at last one hears no more
Of the mocking laughter,
Until remains under the rafter
No sound, no sun.