I am seeking my copy of Robert Kroetsch’s The Crow Journals, wherever that might be. I’ve been dismantling my home office for nearly two months, given our young ladies are getting too big to share a bedroom. I’ve packed and moved fifty boxes of books out into other corners of the house and into our storage but am barely half-through emptying the space. I am seeking my copy of The Crow Journals, seeking to remind myself about tone, how he wrote about what he was writing, but most of my non-fiction shelves are still packed, and haven’t been completely relocated along our downstairs north wall. In an essay by George Bowering, he plays a similar structure, composing an essay simultaneous to his composition of Caprice, the second of his western novel trilogy. I have been sketching a short story about crows, specifically the gathering of daily crows along Innes Road, just by Christine’s work. I’ve been poking at this short story for weeks, attempting to carve every moment and motion.
It is interesting to realize that I’ve crows scattered throughout more than a couple of short stories. More than orioles, blue jays, red-winged blackbirds or sparrows, birds that collectively punctuated my farm-youth. Apparently there were other birds, including cardinals, but I don’t recall seeing too many of those until recently. Now, one finds its way to the crabapple tree in our front yard. I hope the bird finds what it needs, before the tree finally crumbles, beneath its own weight.
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