"Now I was driving straight into half a red ball that was the sun; immense crows swooped back and forth across the road looking for carcasses to pick. I remembered in a confusing moment that Mother had told me to look for the ravens that favored northern climes: My confusion was over a feeling of déjà vu, of a twelve-year-old boy being driven east, then south in 1953 to a faraway home he neither desired nor would ever feel truly at home in; and the boy in a state of petulance and anger staring out of the back seat of the car at this self-same swamp, and how he may have blocked those memories of the first twelve years until he no longer understood their language, which still somehow emanated, however weakly, but was suffocated with irony and mock sophistication. Now the ravens, the puddle ducks in the swamp, the geese wheeling to land in the distance, the dead raccoon and the setting sun, the road itself, cut clumsily but forcibly through the thirty intervening years, leaving them as badly lit photos. There was then, and there was now."

Sundog, Jim Harrison