So softly did the wind blow across my fur that it felt like a caress across my back and up the nape of my neck. It breathed in slowly and deeply listening to my heartbeat in my ears. The anxiety I had felt earlier subsided as I had strolled across the poppy field near the ruins. The mother statue always stared out from the altar area looking on the many wanderings of the others. Weaving in and out of the graves I felt no sadness but just a curiosity of why there and who. Who bury the deer? Was it others from long ago or another species entirely. I had never seen a single dead dear here. The place filled and oozed life to the point many would dance and frolic. Those moments of joy became anticipated created in a moment just because an explosion of activity made hooves and limbs and head move about. At the top of the hill the world would cease to end. All one had to do was to put one foot in front of another rapidly while jumping and as the hill declined well you would not. Suddenly you are in flight soaring about the trees, touching the top of the ruins and trying to discover how to land in the most odd places. Only to find some other deer had learned that long ago and sat there quietly anticipating your arrival. Beloveds come in many forms and in many spirits.