There is a moment, an epiphany, when a wave of black, glossy crows shudders in the hot blue-air. Calling to each other, Beware the writer in the field. He is watching their world: eyes magnifying every morsel of movement and perspicacity, for an all-encompassing consistency; to place the soul of creation onto parchment. They break into a hundred, ashen, volcanic projectiles: separated, diminished, and finally dispersed. All but one.