in the field with birds

in looking back.

I see the scarecrow
in the field, hung upright among
the stalks

of endless corn.
the straw hair,

the long face, made up.
in clothes
once worn to dance in,
perhaps.

bright in color, soft to the touch.

an unpleasant woman, 

set out
on a task
to keep the crows at bay.

the exaggerated lips
and eyes, stitched in black.

arms stretched in cross like
submission.

it reminds of so much.

but she's still at last,
except for
a wavering wind,

that blows between the seams.