Scarecrow

The crow squawked.

Its eyes shone bright into the setting sun,

its claws glinted as it came to perch,

on the old man’s shoulder.

The children in the park nearby,

ran past the swings and through the grasses,

for they had never seen such a crow so closely before.

The bird nipped twice at the old man’s ear.

Its beak pinched his wrinkled skin,

letting out two drops of crimson blood,

that rolled in beads down the man’s neck,

and onto his white collar.

The black wings flapped at the children,

who watched in fascination,

at the spectacle of the dead and dying.

At least,

that was what their English teacher had told them.

But as it turned out,

the man lived another fifteen years.

The crow flew once more,

Across the street,

this time into the dreams of a preacher,

who had veered away from sin all his life.

The preacher dreamed of it amongst the shadows.

He dreamed of red curtains,

lying delicately on the wall.

And beneath them lay a black creature,

Rustling.

And then he woke up.

What did they mean?

Surely, surely, they meant something.

Did they represent his hollowed heart?

No. It couldn’t be.

His heart was beating, full of blood. Chock full.

What was the creature?

Was he the devil?

Birds mean death, you know.

At least, that was what he had read in the finest of literature.

And fiction was never wrong.

He peered toward the scarlet curtains,

of his own room,

and he noticed the rain outside.

Something rustled.

Something squawked.

The curtain pulled away,

and out came his dream,

coming to take his soul.

Or, at least, that is how it was reported.

The children did not understand.

Obviously the bird had been confused.

He took the wrong one.

That was it,

obviously.

He took the wrong one.

But they had not learned the truth.

As the crow’s claws gripped tightly

onto the highest limb

of the tallest tree

in the park,

he spoke only once to the masses.

“Death is not one for symbolism.”