When the Crows Stop Being Afraid

He is dead without ever moving,

A sack of hay with eyes and a face,

His mind slowly undoing,

No hopes left to chase.

If one day a swift, black shadow flies over him

I wonder if he would flinch

Bat an eye, give himself a pinch

And bit by bit, wiggle his limb.

For a scarecrow is nothing without the Crow,

An empty vessel, waiting for his foe.

For at the end of the year, the corn will sprout,

And his new friends will, once again, be about.

What a joyous day it will be,

For the lone Scarecrow in his withered field,

And he will have his little, jolly jubilee,

And all the crops will be healed.

On that day, black feathers will twirl around him like leaves in the wind,

A twister of malice, covering his once beautiful sky,

Rested on his hay-filled shoulders, will be many, tiny avian feet,

And they’ll tear apart the man who made them cry.

-Anonymous