Desmodus Rotundus

Three nights had brought no sustenance. He slept
unsated now in rafters far from where
his colony was roosting. Though he’d kept
a vigil for the scent of sanguine air,
no bovine-borne libation could be found
where he had flown. He flapped a white-tipped wing
and waived his rest in favor of a sound
that comforted: a roaring, rushing spring
to follow back to roost. At dusk he fled
to habitat and gaped his maw for food.
A sated bat coughed up the blood she’d fed
upon into his mouth and thus renewed
the starving mammal’s life. And so it goes.
Remarkable how far the bloodline flows.