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Spirit of Straw by Lelia Thomas

The crows, how they fly, blankets of black in the bluish sky,
Their wings are as any bird’s, their beaks just the same,
But the nature within, all black portents and grim, calls for hate.
And yet, one cannot help but envy their freedom, even if grotesque;
No boundaries do hold them; nor do they hear the protests
As they swoop into fields and feast upon the works of others.

And no shields exist for the Scarecrow amongst the crops.
His clothing is shredded, his stuffing pulled loose, his dignity taken.
And yet he stands all weary and torn, weather worn, between corn stalks
As the crows–oh, how free they seem!–fly and laugh and feast
In narcissism and worldly ways, the nature of the Beast.
How hard, so bitterly hard, it must be to live as Outcast of the Birds.

Yet as the crows fly and dart above, the Scarecrow still stands.
His eyeless face weeps of straw, as his form is rattled, in wind made raw.
He envies the birds, how they fly, blankets of black in the blush sky,
And yet he rejoices, knowing patience will yield return.
So as his body ages, thins until nothing is left but clothing and frame,
He remains true to his spirit, an eternal flame of hope among the crows.

Details

Written in 2005. Though it seems the scarecrow has no peace, he knows what the future will bring. Crows feed off temporary joy.