Graveyard

I have a graveyard beyond my back fence. The residents of this graveyard have made a wild space in the midst of a wilder urban jungle. The murder of fat crows numbers in the hundreds, while the fat raccoons waddle between the headstones. The fat skunk's warning purfumes the air at least once daily and more often if the dogs are out at night. Fat squirrels fly from tree to tree, from branch to twig. Only the fluffiness of their tails distinguishes them from rats in my eyes. They've eaten through the locked plastic lid of our garbage can just to get the McDonald's french-fries. At first I thought the abundant insect life of a graveyard was why all the creatures are fat, but really, it's the squirrels fault.