Perhaps all creatures who can count find a way to systematize loss. Saying, this one is worse than the last one. Or this deserves a shorter period of mourning than the last one. The hardest was ten years ago. As if we count steps, keep a ledger, or scramble up slippery rungs on the loss ladder.
Really, suffering is a pool. Fed by eddies. Confused as it muddies. Until silt settles. We see the mossy bottom where darters turn over tumbled pebbles. Later maybe catch a reflection in a ripple of a white cumulus cloud.
fall geese flying west
in a honking line
why that way