counting bats. 20, if I didn't miss any when more than one flew out of the eaves-box (a strange jutting-out of wood with some sort of corrugated cover, just over one foot by about two feet, eyeballing it). I suppose they are the Little Brown Bat of the Smoky Mountains. They start jostling and making swishing tweets at about a quarter to nine, after the colours of sunset but before twilight really sinks in. Then they start to fly out, in rapid succession, mostly one by one but sometimes two at a time -- the last laggard leaving before a quarter past nine. At the same o'clock, the whip-poor-will has started up in the distance.