Along the quiet, wooded path, eyes are everywhere. We are seen by so many more creatures than we have the privilege of seeing. A busy nuthatch pauses from collecting twigs, while a tiny peeper hops away to safety at our approach. They peek out from the hollows of the forest, observing us as we stop to admire a patch of moss, a mushroom, a feather. They watch as we carefully step from rock pile to rock pile over the stream. They live under those rocks, in that stream, and in the low, tall grasses. They live high in the trees, each home an architectural marvel, perfect for a growing brood. If we knocked, who would answer? Surely they might like to join us at the end of the trail, on the bank of the reservoir, to exchange stories on a picnic blanket.