A crow complaining in the distance.
A child lost in the cornfield; shoulder high by July.
Straight rows a confusing maze within the maize.
Rampage and a sharp edge.
Quiet, small footfalls in the land of Ears.
Toddling and drawn to centerfield.
The taxidermic King waits with open arms; eyes.
The wind laughing in rustling waves.
A stitched smile twitches at the smell of tender, young flesh.
Twisted, stuffy-man images of a new season re-fleshed.
He was suicidal in his current crow-picked face.
Just a little closer, come on...
Stalk-lashed and bleeding, the young one stumbles into the center clearing.
On his knees surrounded by the bones victims past.
A small gasp of surprise and flash of blade.
Time stretching two seconds to thirty minutes of bloody work.
Amazing how much a scarecrow can bleed...