For our evening walk, my wife wears her canary-yellow clogs. They guide us, brightening the walk and pavement, illuminating the dark in a manner that matches faith.
Our pace is quick so as to get home before the bats come out. I despise the winged mice filled with rabies, rumored to be blind, and dependent on echolocation to identify prey, friends, and to search the world for basic needs.
They can hear the shape of my leg , my location and even the stray hair on my beard.
Then I begin to wonder what the color “yellow” sounds like to bats, if its particular shade bounces back into the its ears, and if there’s a particular timbre to it. Yellow may sound like a church bell chime that ripples as water ripples, disturbed by a skipping stone. Or maybe yellow is the color of an angel’s song, just before the dark world ends , because the sun rises, chasing the bat away, dissolving into the dark as dark recedes from our awareness.