Do you ever have one of those evenings when a moth lands on your shirt and your wife surprises you by calling it a “peppercorn moth.” She who never lets on that she knows the species of anything, let alone moths. “Let me get it,” but you walk out of the house with it on your shirt still and she says “It’s on the ground.” You find it. You pick it up. It vibrates the fingertips lightly as you pinch to carry it to the orb weaver building his web and toss it in there to watch the spider scurry to bind and feed on that dusty nothing fluttering aimlessly in the web in the light of the streetlamp. And for the next 15 minutes you pluck many such moths from their perch in the carport ceiling and toss them into the web and each time the magic of that spider feeding surprises you nearly as much as your wife knowing it was a peppercorn moth.