The sky throws water at us, and this one holds up a little black wing to say no.
I watch. When the sky spits, others run for the trees, for the cave, for anything that stops the wet from finding the neck. Not this one. This one carries a stick with a folded bat-skin at the end. The sky opens. The stick opens too, with a snap, a small dark cloud caught on a bone frame, and now the water falls all around but not on the head.
Clever. A roof you carry. A cave that walks. I want it.
But the wind smells the trick and comes for it. The wind grabs the bat-wing and bends it backward, wrong-way, screaming, and the human fights the sky one-handed like a poor hunter losing his spear. The little roof turns against its master. This is the way of caught things. They wait for the moment you trust them.
And the water still finds the feet. Always the feet. The head stays dry and the human walks proud, but I see: the ground is wet, the paws are wet, the cold climbs up from below where the little wing does not reach.
Half a shelter. A brave stick.
I would keep it, but I would watch its back in the wind.