Coming Back

The feeder's empty.

It's been empty for weeks now,

the hooks bare where the seed should hang,

and still they come back.

Three birds this morning,

circling the same spot,

landing on the wood,

finding nothing.

Leaving.

Coming back.

My neighbor stopped filling it

after his mother died.

I don't know why he's keeping it up there—

why he doesn't just take it down,

just admit it's over,

just stop leaving the reminder.

But he leaves it.

And they keep coming back.

There's something in that I can't name,

something about returning to a place

that used to hold what you needed,

something about the persistence

of hunger, of habit,

of not knowing any better.

Or knowing too well.

Maybe they remember.

Maybe the wood still holds the scent.

Maybe they'll come back forever,

this useless return,

this faithful circling

of something that was never really there

to begin with.