Filed under: Faith, Main Artery, Whimsy.
[Falling Leaf, by Rosh, 2009]
I knew a scarecrow once. He was not afraid of crows. Not at all; though they smelled poorly, and hacked away viciously, and infested him with lice and mites. He didn’t mind the violence. He overlooked their sundry ills. For you see they kept him company, as they were not afraid of him.
Within his daily gaze there stood a little puddle of a pond. In the summer it produced frogs in abundance as well as flies for them to eat. In the fall its few fish grew sluggish. By winter it was frozen through within an inch of its shallow bottom. I happen to know the scarecrow cared a great deal for these fish. He would number them around Hallow’s Eve and that number stayed with him through the slow drift of snow and creeping ice that called itself winter.
When the thaw came crawling cross the ground, waking tiny swishing tails to the challenge of a crisping water, the scarecrow’s number would often prove too much. He would let the old tally drift off with the fresh breath of spring. He knew the crows would soon return.
And there were always more crows than he could count.