He stands in the middle of this year's crop;
a body of straw, stuffed into the clothes
of a beggar-man.
In the field's center, arms stretched wide,
with the implied discipline
of deterring robber birds; birds that mocked the wires,
strung with strips of cloth.
He has no conspiracy with winds; just stares
into the distance, seeing in lucid moments
the changing skyline; scaffolding around the church spire,
the lovely patch of green in the center of town
Involved in the convolutions of clouds, anything
that can bouy his spirits