We match each other
barb for barb
like the fruit bats
hanging from the branches
of weeping fig trees
drawn tight like baby buntings.
One bat hisses, one bares its sharp teeth,
the next jabs its wings.
What ignites such a squabble—
a sudden jolt that spurs a flurry
of reaction, until one shrieks
off to a farther branch
disturbing the repose in another cluster.
It happens all over, group after group,
the dense canopy reverberating
in every direction.
At our feet, ripe fruit
crushed on the pavement,
the color of bruises.