The Scarecrow
Spends his days hung up
in a field, his job his name
never asking for a day off
or to leave work early
or for a raise or a promotion
though deep down inside, wishing
for more than to just sit
in a field, scaring crows
'Perhaps', he thinks to himself
'Those crows are not so bad,
after all. There is plenty grain
here for the farmer and his family,
and this has been my office
for as long as I can remember,
I should be able to do with it
what I please, for once.'
And so one fateful day he dropped
from his post, tucked the loose
straw back into his coat, brushing
off the dust of an eternity
and waited
and waited
and waited some more
for his first feathered friend
At last long last a crow flew
down, and landed on a tree
far from the scarecrow's reach.
'What's the game? Why, the stick
has been removed from your ass.
You are not nearly as frightening,
as menacing, as cruel. So why,
oh why, have you ended up so?'
'Alas, old crow, I have retired
to just sit still I have no desire.
All these years I have watched
you fly, away from here, away
from me. To serve the farmer
who let my shirt rot in rain
and scorching sun, never caring
nor noticing how hard I worked.'
The crow came closer and cocked
his head, hearing but unsure
if his former foe was serious.
'I trust you not,' said the crow
'and can you blame me? But I love
the way your buttons shine,
they glisten heavenly in this sun
give one to me, a token of honesty.'
So the scarecrow nodded and reached
for the specks of gold adorning
his front, but the crow flew forward,
tiny talons tearing into the plaid,
farmer's shirt, and one by one
each and every button, plucked
from its place, and the crow flew
far away, glittering in the clouds.
His shirt was shredded, his straw
a mess, the scarecrow hobbled back
to his stick in the mud, pulling
himself back onto his perch, watching
the sky for signs of the crow returning,
and return he did, the moon rising
the scarecrow struck, and killed the bird
stringing it up, a warning to others
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