Scarecrow Considers the Afterlife
Gathering threads, I join them with a central
knot, producing a sunburst flower or constellation
of ley lines spreading forth and connecting their
tenuous truths – megalith to fjord, solstice to
dodmen and feng shui, suppositions entwined
and spat out. And who’s to say which alignment
stands taller than the next, which rut, which energy,
defines our direction? When I cease to be, will I
remain or dissipate, return in another form or
explode and scatter throughout the universe, the
residue of me sizzling along the starways for eternity
or perhaps just the next twenty minutes. It is clear
that I possess no heart, no internal organs. My spine
is lattice, my skin, fabricated from jute. Eviscerate
me and straw will tumble out. I do not bleed. Yet
the crows consult me in secret and conduct their
daily mercies, and I think and dance and dream
and wonder and hope. Oh, what I hope.
* * *
This was first published at Eclectica in July 2016, with two companion pieces.
O at the Edges 
Wonderful reading!
And who’s to say which words from Scarecrow best lift my awareness into hope?
(All so wise, perhaps stemming from crow counsel.)
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Thank you, Jazz. We should all pay heed to crow-talk.
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The only thing better than reading a Scarecrow poem is hearing one! I would like to think there’s a deathless universe where he (and the crows) can think and dance and dream and wonder and hope forever.
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I’d like to eavesdrop on their conversations. I might even dance a bit…
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As always scarecrow gladdens my heart. (K)
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I believe that you and Scarecrow are kindred spirits.
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I think that’s true.
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