I’ve been damned enough, William.”

William considered himself an ordinary boy, nothing like his brother. Thomas wasn’t an ordinary boy. Unlike his brother, he did much for dramatic affect: sometimes speaking in metaphors and sometimes speaking with an irregular syntax which William found unrelentingly annoying.

“I’ve been damned enough?” replied William. “That’s remarkable. You’ve always been father’s favorite.”

William was uncompromisingly ordinary. He had no time for Thomas’ I‘ve-been-damned- enough business.

“There’s no honesty in you, Thomas.”

After William insulted Thomas’ integrity, neither of them spoke for a while. The two brothers sat on a log overlooking their father’s land and watched as he worked a plow. He was too distant to be made out properly, but Thomas and William both knew he was wearing his brimmed hat, ragged trousers, and white cotton shirt.

Both of the boys noticed a crow in a near-by tree. Its feathers were ruffled and coarse, and its pumpkin orange beak blended with the bright autumn leaves. The bird didn’t move much so William’s gaze idly wandered back to his father and watched as he paced up and down the field. Thomas didn’t care much for the bird either so he concentrated his gaze back on the fields ahead. He inspected the pattern the plow had made as it weaved on the field. He was saddened to see his father’s progress. When he picked up his tools this morning, he seemed rather sprightly and energetic, but now his back was bent over and his feet dragged along the ground. What’s more, the line of the plow had begun to waver and it became more diagonal than straight as it worked.

“Father is aging, isn‘t he, William?”

“Yep.”

Thomas was silent. He thought about time’s merciless passage and vulnerability.

“Is father dead already?” he asked.

“You’re an idiot.”

“But he’s older now. Look at his legs dragging along the ground behind the plow and ruining the line.”

William made no answer. He began to think of his father’s progress, too. He remembered breakfast and how his father tripped on a loose nail; as he bent down to fix it William noticed a flicker of grey in his hair. William also thought of the pale silver of his father’s stubble and how the flesh on his cheeks had begun to hang off his bones.

“Age,” William said.

“What age is he?” Thomas asked.

“Old enough. But we’ll be like him one day. You have his hair and eyes, and my nose is flat like his. You have his quick wit and sharp temper, and I have his energy.”

“It’s like we drained him of his qualities and, now he’s as good as dead. Watch his feet; watch them drag.”

William had nothing to say. His eyes were still fixed on his father. He became annoyed at what he had said, he sounded almost like Thomas. Stupid old bruiser, he thought, I’m not him.

His father was still pacing up and down the field. He’s dizzy with age Thomas thought to himself. If only he could keep the plow in a straight line I wouldn’t feel so sad; if only he had more strength. But he didn’t and the line got worse until the boys father had to stop and realign himself. Thomas felt a pang in his stomach as he saw his father look back, wipe his brow and realize his own fragility. Oh, Thomas thought, don’t look back.

William, on the other hand, grew more and more frustrated with his father and started to shout to the field,

“Stay straight you old fool. Look back at your line! You’re off!”

Thomas was too timid to stop William and he knew it was pointless anyway; his father couldn’t hear. He was absorbed in his own faulting task. Instead, hearing his brother shout only exaggerated Thomas’ sadness, and after a few minutes, he couldn’t bear it.

“Do you want to walk into town?” he asked.

“No,” replied William.

“Do you want to go swimming?”

“No.”

“Where’s mother?”

“Town.”

The crow lit down on the log beside Thomas and William. Neither boys paid any attention to

it; its beak was still pumpkin orange and it’s feathers were still ruffled and coarse.

“Let’s go and help father then,” said Thomas

“No,” replied William.

“But look at him drag his feet! He’s making more work for himself.”

“I won’t let you help him, Thomas.”

The bird began a shrill caw as William spoke and the father looked up at his children. Neither of the boys could see, but his eyes were totally bloodshot and his shirt was soaked in sweat. William shooed the crow away, but it simply lurched back towards the tree and cawed again, only louder this time. The blue eyes of their father were encompassed fully by a deep red. He began to stumble.

“Look at the dizzy old fool,” said William. “He’s going to have to do it again this afternoon.”

The bird was still cawing; its hoarse shriek echoed on the fields below.

Their father continued to stumble around the plow. His legs became increasingly weak until they no longer supported him. He hit the ground. His hat jumped off and revealed once more the sterling flash on his crown.

When the boys reached their father they tried to pick him up and carry him to the cart, but neither of them was strong enough. The man’s limbs were stiff and cumbersome; his heart wasn’t beating. The field was upturned in various and irregular patterns and the boys were both struggling frantically to revive their father. Thomas was beating his chest and William was growling and shouting in his ear. Saliva dribbled from the man’s mouth and curled underneath his chin, his eyes rolled up into his head, and the crow fell silent above the field.