I sat on the picnic table one evening, unassailed by flies or mosquitoes, listening to mourning doves ‘coo-cooing’ beyond my line of sight; the distant water-thrashing territorial disputes between opposing pairs of Canadian geese along Mikinaak Creek; the melodic trills of redwing blackbirds from the tops of the trees; and robins, here and there, singing happily from the woods. To me, it’s pure heaven. The breeze arises in the treetops, then descends. Between gusts, I can hear water rushing through an upstream beaver dam. I hear one bluejay talking to another. I watch a handful of goldfinches hunt for sunflower seeds below the birdfeeder that my wife insists on using even though natural food abounds now, just so she can see them in all their variety. “Do you know purple finches poop is purple?” Bullfrogs sing-song from the water; tree frogs peep from the trees. The branches of the dozen or so bur oaks that once bordered the Martin and Irene Davidson home, reverberate behind me in a