Scarecrow Stories

in a field he stands, hisfeet in darkness, his dirty raggedface dull with themoon’s silverlight.the festoonery ofrags is about him,each borrowed garmentwith its story.those eyeshe wearsare not blindwithal;the empty sockets are filled with seeing.last night there weretwo in thelane,and he watched a dreadfulviolation;heard the terrorin hervoice,saw the sharpblade thrust in andout; the moon’spale phosphorescenceflashing to a...