Grandpa Scarecrow by Marc Beaudin

Marc Beaudin is a poet, novelist, and playwright originally from Michigan and now living in the shadow of the Absaroka Mountains south of Livingston, Montana. His work has been published in several journals including Avocet, The MacGuffin, Temenos, Pirene's Fountain and Flashquake. He also has published three poetry chapbooks, a novel A Handful of Dust, and the newly released, full-length collection of poetry The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds. More information on his writings and theatre work can be found at CrowVoice.com.

He throws the full moon over his shoulder
and rumbles across the field
like a John Deere tractor
picking bits of stale tobacco from his arid lips
arms swaying in unison
with the broad, rustling leaves

The crows scream his name like a battle cry:
“Hoka-Hey, Scarecrow – Today is a good day to die”
But his grey bones
like these dry stalks of corn
will stand their ground for yet another winter

Grandpa Scarecrow toes the asphalt snake
rubs his gold tooth for luck
and conjures a ride with his magic thumb

He settles back with yellowed hands on his knees
as the car fills with the smell of damp straw.
“Where ya headed, Grandpa?” I ask.
“Home,” he says.
“Always home.”