Under the eave lives a quiet thing.

It has golden saucer eyes,

That blink anxiously to life when something draws near

Shining, they stare out into the darkness

When all is still

They close again.

This thing,

It wears a hat.

An ugly hat.

Brown and lopsided

But warm.

The hat makes noises,

Angry squeaking

Sharp yellow mouths emerge

Then disappear again.

This thing that lives under the eave

Rumbles with the moving walls

That screech and stretch their jaws

To swallow what comes

And spit it out again in the morning.

These mouths

Big and small

They shake and eat

And squeal and scream

But the thing that lives under the eaves

With golden saucer eyes

Only blinks, and sleeps.

There is a nest of birds on top of my garage light.