The remarkable world of bats

I have in my hand a small, warm bat. Wings folded, she fits perfectly in my palm, and her chestnut fur, damp from the evening dew, is spiky in a punkish sort of way. She is groggy with sleep; she has been napping-something bats do wonderfully well-while she awaited rescue from the benign trap set for her, this most unusual little mammal.


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