The Scarecrow

All winter through I bow my head beneath the driving rain; the North Wind powders me with snow and blows me black again; at midnight 'neath a maze of stars I flame with glittering rime, and stand above the stubble, stiff as mail at morning-prime. But when that child called Spring, and all his host of children come, scattering their buds and dew upon these acres of my home, some rapture in my rags awakes; I lift void eyes and scan the sky for crows, those ravening foes, of my strange master, Man. I watch him striding lank behind his clashing team, and know soon will the wheat swish body high where once lay a sterile snow; soon I shall gaze across a sea of sun-begotten grain, which my unflinching watch hath sealed for harvest once again.