We think we own this place. They think
        they do.        
Our yard, our walls are tunneled through
and through.
Though we are merely something to put up
                with,
Our birds they daily deign to dine and
                sup with.
Our blossom-beds they tear to disarray.
They fear no nuthatch, woodpecker or jay.
Assuming bird-feeders for them were meant,
They pack their cheeks with bounty,        
                well content,
Then creep through grass and pop down
out of sight,         But then pop up again, eyes blinking bright.
They climb our shrubs, invade our cellar
        shelves,        
Explore each plant. They sit and scratch
        themselves.
Along our old stone walls they jump and run,
Or bask and rub their paws in noonday sun,
Our chase each other madly-chase is fun.
Even as I write, I hear the lone "tick-tock"
Of a lovelorn chipmunk, upright on some rock.
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