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102 Spirit of the Bat Hair rush, low swoop— so those of us stuck here on earth know—you must be gods. Or friends of gods, granted chances to push off into sky, granted chances to hear so well your own voice bounced back to you maps the night. Each hinge in your wing’s an act of creation. Each insect you snick out of air a witness. You transform obstacles 103 into sounds, then dodge them. ...

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