Squatters

The vines trail over the trellis of the great gabled house
On the hill in the woods, the wind churns leaves
It scatters pieces like a child strewing sand
The neighborhood teenagers hurl stones
Crack windows
During drunken games and overnight naps
Locals turn their gaze away from the eyesore
Of yellow portico growing yellower
But in the eaves, a family of sparrows makes its nest
And a fox dens indoors on a sagging velvet armchair
Mice in the pantry drag in acorns and mushrooms
And the bat in the chimney delights in soot and dark;
Even the fire-less hearth is still a hearth
And a home, a home, for the otherwise homeless