Darkened night and
The winds of the west blow through the cornfield
Blow the smell of confussion.
Rotting dead tree limbs dance amongst
the night sky trying to weave a tale,
unknown to the human eye.
And the scarecrow sits and watches
The landscape he's been placed in.
Takes every bit in.
Yet doesn't know his job.
Doesn't know what to do or feel.
Mere straw he was stuffed with and
nothing can protect him. . .

~The corn trees begin to sway.
Lightning flashes this and that way.
Scarecrow never thought he'd see the day,
of fire on his nightly stay.
Oh you who's head is made of hay,
There is no way you can delay,
you fate. . .

©1999 Gavin Casares