Samsara

The day after my Aunt Ro died a doe approached within a few feet as if confused about where she was and what she should be doing. I could neither comfort nor advise her. I let her be not considering until later maybe I had witnessed the transmigration of a soul. But in the end I applied Ockham’s razor— you rarely see what you believe. A mile further along my morning stroll I was greeted cheerfully by a flock of cedar waxwings I always consider it a blessing to encounter. Such social, amiable beings I hope Aunt Ro will join, so sure are they of who they are—