I arrived at the lake a few minutes after midnight after teaching the first class in Current Topics in Law and Ethics at the Chelmsford “campus,” a pleasant suite of classrooms and offices in a suburban office building. I parked my car in the shade outside the first-floor classroom, windows and sunroof open, to keep an eye on the dogs. The drive north was much longer than I expected. I unpacked, opened windows to air out the stuffy interior, found a towel and flashlight, and went to the dock. The moon had not risen. Stars dotted the sky, the Milky Way a pale smudge. Walking parallel to the lake I heard a distinct splash hear shore. A fish? I heard another splash, then another, and then more as I walked on the dock. They didn’t sound like the splashes fish make when they jump, and there were too many. I listened mystified, playing the flashlight beam over the lake’s glassy surface. There was a splash to my right. I turned and saw concentric ripples and, at the edge of my vision, a flitting shadow. I heard another splash in front, then one to my left, and I understood. Bats were darting about catching insects, swooping low, drinking from the lake, then resuming their hunt. I raptly watched and listened for ten minutes. The lake and night were perfectly still, no sounds save the cries of loons and the splashes from the leathery flying acrobats. I broke from my reverie and dove in. Unfortunately my splash was louder than the bats’. It alarmed the dogs back in the house, who starting barking. They wouldn’t stop until I walked back and shushed them.