****** OF CROWS


Scarecrow stood
perfectly still.

His face hidden
under a battered hat.

Hard to tell
what he was

looking at
hope it was

not
me.

He a black crucifix
as the day died.

Three crows hanging
upside down

from a thin right arm
from a thin left arm

three crows hanging
upside down.

Life had left them
to rot.

Present only by
a terrible absence.

A series of crows
nailed to a barn door.

The wood weathered beyond age.
Paint peeling off like skin.

Wings outstretched
like a deadly blessing.

Like heraldic emblems
on Medieval  shields.

Was as if one had
stepped into

an Andrew Wyeth
painting

and the painting
had refused to let you go.

As if scarecrow
had gotten a shot gun.

Shot them down.
One by one by one by one.

The bark of the gun proclaiming
"My name is Death!"

Or that scarecrow
had pulled them from the sky

with his bare hands
tore out their eyes.

Carcasses.
A maggot's feast.

Crows fleeing beyond
a far horizon.

The light darkening.
Scarecrow raising his head.

Old turnip skull.
Dead and not dead.

His straw hair
ruffled by the wind.

He grins.