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The Life and Death of a ScarecrowIn a wind swept cornfield he stands, a vigilant sentinel always on guard for that pesky thief…the crow. He was created by his maker for one reason and one reason only…protect the golden grains of harvest and the pumpkins too, so they might grow. He stands in the heat of the August sun and in the cold of the Autumn wind. He sways from side to side, but he never bends. He never eats, sleeps and has no kin. He stands straight as an arrow and has never committed a sin. He’s never spoken a word, yet everyone knows his purpose is to scare away the crow and the pesky black bird. Now that the harvest is at it’s end and he’s done his duty again. The cold winter wind begins to blow, and his old straw hat fills up with new fallen snow. His corn shuck arms have fallen off, and his face is slowly fading from the worn cotton feedsack. Once gone, he will never be back. The old scarecrow is dying, as a sentinel he’s served his master well. But like all scarecrows, He’s finally gone to hell! Jackie R. Kays ©05 Vote for this poem
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