Scarecrow
He has no memory of his making
Or how he came to be here
Staked to his fixed position
In the middle of this muddy field
His face set North towards the trees
He has no idea what he’s supposed to do
Or the purpose of his existence
Except to watch and wait
Through the clearest starry nights
The cold and frost biting at his fingers
And the long and lonely days
The Sun burning into his staring eyes
And bleaching pale his tattered clothes
He cannot move, nor look around
But must stand here, arms outstretched
Alone and forever crucified
His ragged hat and jacket
Flapping in the breeze
Silhouetted against the sky
Stark, dark, and solitary
His few unbid companions
Contemptuous of his looming figure
Casting a slowly-moving shadow
Across the fertile furrows
Boldly walk quite close
Huge black birds that croak and squawk
As they gorge themselves
Upon the seeds and shoots
Perhaps, if he had any feelings
He would pity them
In their fight to feed themselves
Scratching out their existence
From upon the earth beneath his feet
The weather slowly wears him down
Rotting the stuffing of his guts
Which slowly falls away
Vermin-nibbled
And is picked and pecked
To form good nesting material
So that other creatures may be warm
And live another day
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