Scarecrow

A Poem by Jon Roggie

The fire grows dim,
   and I notice a friend of yours seems to come closer.

Who you ask?
   Why,
      the lonely fellow left in the fields.

Left for the crows to pick,
and for you to abuse.

Do I feel a bit of unease,
glancing over your shoulder,
      checking his progress?

Nothing to worry about,
   while the fire adds some light.

     But time for me to sleep.

Time for a pail of water,
and a bit of darkness.