The Scarecrow

Across the fields he stands, rakish hat, straw arms sticking out of an old jacket, painted face, pantlegs flapping. The corn is ripening, and the tassels blow in the wind. The scarecrow’s pants make a snapping noise when they slap against the pole. But the crows are oblivious, not fooled for a minute by the ersatz man who is standing there waving his arms, because crows are smart. They can identify people by their faces, while we cannot tell one crow from another. They are thieves and tricksters, and there is no way you can beat them at their own game. They land in murders, some landing on the foolish hat, and caw in loud, raucous laughter at the folly of the farmer