At the base of the stump  
where I daily dump corn for 
the blue jays and squirrels,  
is a familiar mallard. 
I know her by her limp.  
 
One year ago, under a bare-branched hydrangea, she laid nine eggs. 
I’d counted them later.  
 
When first I’d noticed the nest,  
I put a pail of water near and dumped  
extra corn so she could brood 
with ease, although she sometimes flew off.  
I got it. Every mother needs a break. 
Besides, no limp when flying. 

But then, a late winter storm. 
She sat on the eggs while  
freezing rain fell. 
But after eight inches of snow blew in, 
she was gone. Does she know the squirrels 
soon made off with the eggs and  
buried them out in the yard? 
Singly. Like corpses. Or treasures. 

I found several later as 
I spaded the gardens  
and gently re-interred them. 
Now she’s back.  
Perhaps she knows.