Scarecrow

‘so glad ya made it out alright,’ she says. ‘i’m feelin’ a whole lot better knowin’ that the crops’re bein’ taken care-uh.” you nod, smile politely and step out of your car straight into drying mud. ‘i just don’t have the time anymore t’do it myself,’ her scratching voice wobbles almost woefully. ‘i understand,’ you say. her face bears deep, dark lines from the corners of her mouth, from the corners of her eyes, and creases around her nose like canyon gorges that sink bottomless. she turns and beckons you to follow. the both of you make footprints in the dust, her dilapidated boots are as cracked as her skin. she walks at a faster pace than you expect of her, marching past the farmhouse, past the barn where the pigs snort and snuff and past the wooden fence. “beautiful day for it, too.’ she says from up ahead. old yellow sun blaring down like a car horn, baking you into the earth. you’re at the edge of a field now, emerald stalks of sweet corn impose some dominance before you. the woman enters the nearest row, doesn’t hesitate, she’s got somewhere to show you. and her eyes don’t stray from the corn-thicket ahead, she has faith that you’re following. which you are. you really need this job, after all. you keep on walking for, honest to god, who knows how long until reaching a rift in all the rows. the dirt here is paler, more sun-lightened. centered in a stunted clearing sits a silly wooden bar stool with three rickety legs. the thing stands a whole head taller than you. she points to it. and looks at you, finally. ‘well,’ she says. ‘i’ll leave ya to it.’ she peels back the corn stalks, taking a different way out. you go careening when you try to clamber up on the stool, so you wait until it rights itself before going higher. the splintering rungs hiss at you. but you make it to the top and plant your feet, there’s just enough room to fit. daylight rages overhead, no sympathetic clouds today. so you stand and you cook. the sea of corn undulates in mockery of still wind as it whirls upwards and back, the driest of waltzes. and you, oh, you look so glorious up there. burning under the sun, your skin blisters a layer at a time until your veins shrivel and wheeze. you wear a golden halo. you inhale, the cornstalks bend to you, crowning you in gilded cobs. you exhale, they fan out, forcing the stool you stand on to rise and declare itself an imperial pilar. this is the brightest you’ve ever seen the sky. you raise your arms out, and the cornfield bows.