Scarecrow
He's standing there in the middle of the Wheatfield.(A towering sun over his shoulders)
The wind blows through the Golden ears...
pushing him around.
But in his mind, he stands there, very still.
The flock of crows is approaching,
like black clouds heralding a storm.
At the same hour,
just like they used to every day.
They don't respect him (They think he is a joke).
He's been patient all his life,
even having a kind soul,
which is often mistaken for weakness and stupidity
among all the crows in the world.
This time, things are going to be
a little bit different,
So, he waits until the sun is ready to set...
At that moment,
He pulled a shotgun out of his straw chest
hidden under his old, tattered vest.
And shooting into the sky,
The crows flew away, scared to death.
Because a Scarecrow's job will always be
to scatter the crows.
Poetry by Golden Minotaur
Read 2987 times
Written on 2025-09-08 at 08:18
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