The doe has apparently decided that our sorry dogs pose no threat and that my tomatoes and cucumbers make lovely hors d’oeuvres. Consequently, over the past two weeks we’ve been able to watch as her two spindle-legged fawns grow out of their spots.

On the feeder I’m seeing the young cardinals now (”looks much like the female, but with blackish bill”). They’ve learned quickly that it’s all theirs–that they can sit on that dish and eat as many sunflower seeds as they can break open.

Along the driveway, the fuchsia crowns of bull thistles are bursting open, a reminder to the goldfinches that their heedless days are done and it’s time to get down to the serious business of nest-building and child-rearing.

Yesterday in the garden, looking down between my flip-flopped feet, I saw a pair of gold-green Japanese beetles writhing in a furious and passionate embrace.

In Atlanta, those two red-tailed hawk chicks have just now fledged. And, at last, inside the house, in the downstairs study-turned-bedroom, hearing those young birds cry from the treetops like untutored angels, my father can release his spirit from its worn shackles.

Rest in peace, dear old Dad.