From The Moment:

The bats hang under the bridge like bunches of grapes.
Hard not to shudder, as when one sees rats crawling over
each other or a snake slithering across a river. But now
in the gloaming they come alive, flit back and forth between
their roost and the river to drink and to feed on
insects. The water ripples where one has grabbed a bug
just above the surface or taken a sip on the wing. They
must be Daubenton’s, says S., they like water. The bats’
calls start as questions thrown into the void: pulses that
bounce off walls, off water and trees, and back into the
creatures’ nervous systems, which in turn recreate the
world around them so intimately they can catch tiny
insects invisible to us as we watch from the bank. What
to us is a confusion of flapping wings is to the bats a
high-precision hunt. Almost blind, they’re nevertheless
at home in their environment in ways we can only piece
together from outside.

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