1/4 of a flash, truncated, plus sweet fire of love in Flash Friday

In the great hall birds frittered the days in the filtered haze of sunlight through age darkened windows, the names of men forgotten on their beaks. In the gloaming the bats would wake with a bustle and wend their way through broken masonary into the weedy-worm-wood salt marsh to feast on bugs rising to starlight, carnal blood hot on their wings.

Over the winter burm sometimes the lapping of water against bent wood would silence the crickets and the air would still. Or a dog barking at something in a tree or barking because it’s what dogs do and the sound ripples through the marsh and passes over and is gone.