They hang from the rock face, tiny- boned as pine needles: in September —then in March, the cave is shellacked with carcasses. Hanging from the ceiling, little mummies-- the spores have filled the air, their white noses in the hibernacum, a dust choked infection, leaving Vermont batless for the spring. Back nests are highly dangerous, sub-humous or in the ceiling, scampering like mice to leave their fungal shells behind. The El Dorado Motor Inn has jacuzzis in its rooms; and cash for gold brings homeless in to barter teeth and spoons. But in the batless, Vermont-fresh caves, I'm crying out to you. We leave by light, the cave mouth too "could never be too soon." The relics in the alley way, fallen from the attic, were built of gold and meant to stay but traded in a panic, growing roots and bricks and feelers echolocate to the past-- this is Vermont in Autumn time, too soft and fast to cost or catch or be caught or captured-- batless Vermont is suffering cold, lucifugus enraptured.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
by Rebecca Anne Renner