I feel like an invader walking in the woods on these early July mornings. Baby turkeys with their mothers, a clutch of young quail, bunnies playing hide and seek, the young spike buck still in velvet, and innumerable hidden nests with peeps like an amateur orchestra tuning up. They are at home here, and I try to walk softly. Buck and I discovered a nursery of granddaddy longlegs of all sizes. Question: What are the metaphysical implications of being born a granddaddy?