A nest of dried grass and lint and wool.
I think they want to make friends.
New neighbor update:
I do think I ought not fume and post, people. It's just never a good idea.
They're still there. Their large blue-and-chrome motor home perpetually in my view as I garden, their Pit Bull barking as I garden in the beds beside my front porch, their parking job changing the traffic of the school bus and their existence changing the way I think about my rural life.
How blessed am I to have a home, to have dirt of my own to plant tomatoes and chard, to be able to lock my doors at night and call my harmless and goofy Retriever in from the yard? How blessed am I to know that I will have a next meal (or 90) at the same table, changing tablecloths to match the flowers my girls brought in? The working showers, the stuffed bookcases, the mommy time-outs.
The new (temporary) neighbors initially made my skin burn as though I were covered in fire ants. But that's moving on as surely as they will. They've brought a new element to the road. I think I'll call it gratefulness.