The scarecrow stands with crucified superiority,
Under the pretense of some higher authority.
But terror is all a straw man ever yields,
Staked in the ground lording over the fields.
Soldiers of cornstalk and worshipers of wheat,
Sway and pray at the scarecrow’s feet.
From far above it’s a peculiar sight;
Scavengers hover at a distance in flight.
Most dare not look too close or get too near,
And the scarecrow relies on this manmade fear.
But if the crow was brave she would see,
Scarecrows are no more real than fantasy.
Then a murder of black would angrily descend,
And like obedient widows no longer willing to pretend,
They’d cast their shrouds and scream their wrath.
And the scarecrow would be but straw in the savage aftermath.