Haunted houses stir with the falling leaves, but in truth they never sleep.
As the windows crust with scaly frost and snow creeps over the ground.
As mama birds stab wriggling worms into gaping, voracious mouths.
As bare skin bubbles beneath a searing, uncompromising heat.
As the skies grow cool and the trees drip off their leaves.
Gravestones spend more time in the dark.
Houses are always awake.