Sometimes at dusk the family would sit outside the shop and stare at the wheatbin. The last caws of crows stretched with the fading light. Dusk is a crushing time for a dying town. If dawn surprises and mocks with hopelessness, the suggestion that light might lift it all, then dusk is worn out and can’t be bothered taunting. Crow’s breath, the maintenance workers called it, enough to singe the bin’s whitewash. And when that goes, this town will sink under the murk.
Hey, look – it’s a new review!
Just last week, I shared my thoughts on John Kinsella’s “chilling, funny and captivating” short story collection, Crow’s Breath over at Newtown Review of Books. I’d love it if you’d go and have a read.
My thanks, as always, go to Linda and Jean from NRB for hosting me.