-This poem reflects on a scarecrow remaining in a field after the harvest, when its work has ended but weather, crows, mice, and fallen leaves continue to gather around the figure left behind.
The corn is gone from every row,
but still the scarecrow keeps its place,
its patched blue coat held wide by poles,
its hat pulled low above no face.
A length of twine has come undone,
one sleeve turns slowly in the wind,
while crows descend beyond the ditch
to search the ground it cannot guard.
The afternoon grows thin and cold,
dry husks go scraping past its boots,
a field mouse shelters in the straw
that shows beneath the torn left cuff.
By dusk, the western clouds burn red,
the crows lift toward the distant trees;
the scarecrow leans above the stubble,
one empty pocket filled with leaves.