Stephen Elliott

Assemblage.

A beautiful walk in the woods on a sunny afternoon with my grandsons. A small tree chewed by a beaver left for a trophy and dragged all the way home to be saved for posterity. The smoothness of the bark disrupted by the teeth of the beaver, exposing the mottled white underbelly of the tree. Always ropes to tie things together. On the floor of a deserted barn, weathered wooden slats from an old threshing floor worn by the labour to clean grain. Conversations, journey, company, all woven together. A memory.