We eat dinner on the deck again, plates perched on our laps listening to the stereo calls of birds calling from left and right. I need to learn which voices belong to which calls. They are so distinct and so clear. We are at a concert or listening to a conversation. "It's a black crested chickadee," says my little one. I must tell her teacher the bird lover this. The pipe cleaner/cheerio feeder she made at school this week hangs above us. "Look!" shouts my first grader, "Some are missing! They came, the Cardinals ate your food!" My little one smiles contentedly. She knew they would.