I’m walking into
the house after work
and by chance
I look to the left

toward the patch below
our front room windows,
toward
the black-mulched front yard

pitted all over
from squirrels and birds
winter hunting,
hunger looking.

City made us take
the feeders down last year,
claiming rats would come 
also hunting, looking.

Right at my feet
first daffodils 
poke up from
next to the walkway;

we saw a cardinal
in the bare red bush
yesterday for the first time
since November.

Only time I’ve ever seen 
a rat on this street
was mid-summer, rooting
through the long leaves

of daffodils and hostas.  I stop,
look hard at the roughed-up yard.
I miss the birds, think of putting
the feeders back in March —

maybe just one, risk a trade off:
take a chance on pestilence
to stave off hunger. Some say
feeders are always a bad idea.

I don’t know about that. I do know
I miss the birds
and it won’t be too long
till the daffodils bloom, and

God only knows
what hunger will bring
to my front yard once they do.
I go into the house to think.