The next generation lives there now,
their motion cam picking up all manner

of wildlife in the backyard, the one
that used to be our backyard when

my sister and I were growing up.
My nephew and his wife show us

photos of a little gray fox peering
into the sliding glass door—

one staring at the orange cat inside—
this caller who comes to visit.

In the nearly 60 years that our
family has occupied that house,

we’ve never seen a fox, though we’d
heard they were our neighbors

living in the state park across the road.
This one with such a sweet face

lingers as if it’s checking out the place,
perhaps knowing it well. As if she—

who died in the room on the other side
of that glass, whose essence may have

seeped through it as she headed into
mystery, she who so wished for

reincarnation—has returned to see
who’s coming for Thanksgiving

and what might be for dinner.