easy work if you can get it

i see an old scarecrow

out in the field.

no crops to speak of,

a bare

field of unplowed

dirt,

a few lingering

stalks

of battered corn

as the wind

whips the dust into

my lungs,

but the scarecrow still

hangs

by her arms on the wooden

cross.

the stitched in eyes,

the grim

smile

and tattered clothes.

the long stick nose

now a bird's perch.

all day

she's on the job.

easy work if you can get it.