The bats were dying in the hay loft. Each time I climbed the ladder another bat would lie lifeless in the scattered straw with its wings spread like angel wings in a Christmas play: gauze stretched on wire. The bats were black and overlarge with furry, round heads and jet eyes that seemed to stare through life to the beyond.
The kittens scampered to me over the plank floor, skidding to a stop in the loose straw near the feet that feed them. One of the kittens saw the dead bat then; with her tiny jaws she grabbed whatever she could of the bat's head and dragged the carcass away. I worried for the kitten, wondered about rabies or other diseases, but in the end I refused to interfere. It was the natural order of things.