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
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