I look over and see the daffodils, beautiful in their fleeting spring display. They seem to be leaning in and listening. They are circled, with open petals. It turns out they are gathered round a lonely tulip. The tulip is battered, its leaves and petals chewed by some critter. It has a war story. It survived the rodent and lived to tell about it. It blooms several years in a row with no help from any daft gardener. It is a tough bulb, a hardy flower, the rough character in the flower bed. It is a leader. So the daffodils lean in to listen.