One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow

by Olivia Hawker

My family had returned to our little gray farmhouse by the time April arrived with its blustery days and frost-hard nights. But though we no longer lived under one roof, Clyde and I still spent as much time in one another’s company as we could contrive. Now each of us saw the whole of the land—that is to say, all the land our two families owned—as ours, belonging to us both. We shared responsibility for the animals and the fields. With great pride in our strength and our hard-earned knowledge, we toiled side by side, paying no heed to the boundary posts, for all that was mine belonged to Clyde, and all that was his became mine. More often than not, we worked in contented silence. There was seldom any cause to speak. Even without words, we could feel—in the tireless bending of our backs, in the rhythm of our days—the satisfaction of knowing that we could manage so much land between us. Both farms seemed to respond eagerly to our collective stewardship. Substance’s time had come to a close; all eras must end. I knew it, and Substance knew it, too, for he seldom spoke to me anymore when I carried my treasures to his grave. Our parents’ hold over the earth was weakening, their grip falling loose. A new world unfolded around us, welcoming our youth, our quiet and subtle power—ushering us to our rightful place as the stewards of our land. Though the ground was still afflicted by frost, and only the hardiest peas and springtime greens could yet grow, still I sensed a readiness in...