Country diary: even reduced to bare bones the bat's magic remains

Welburn, North Yorkshire With a tiny paintbrush and tweezers I salvage a skeleton: the tiny skull, the whisker-fine finger bones

I found it at the top of the field in July, after the barley harvest. A little body, wings folded and face scrunched. It was snagged on a scaffold of stubble like a miniature sky burial, overlooking a vista it must have known well until the previous night, when, somehow, all its knowing became nothing. Reflexively, I picked it up. In my hand, with its sky-tickling energy surrendered to gravity and its ultrasound din silenced, its dead weight might not have been there at all.

We were leaving on holiday next morning and in the frenzy of packing I almost forgot it. I should have taken measurements and got past a generic identification Myotis (mouse-eared bats). Instead, I hurriedly sealed the little corpse in a margarine tub with a perforated lid, along with a splash of water to prevent mummification, and left it on a shady sill in the garden.