A JUNGLE BEACH 111 



cot, two vampires hawk back and forth so close 

 that the wind from their wings dries my ink. 

 And the soundness of my sleep is such that time 

 does not exist between their last crepuscular 

 squeak and the first wiry twittering of a blue 

 tanager, in full sunshine, from a palm overhang- 

 ing my beach. 



