Everyone knows the scarecrow,

At dawn-- below the bleached spot of sky,

The dew darkened shoulders and arms

Reaching out, as if to fly,

Burlap head unbowed, stiff on its pole,

Face as awkward as a child’s sprawl,

With vivid grin, the leftover red

From the wheelbarrow.

It leans over the rows of sunflowers,

Refusing to stand straight,

We know its the earth,

But the heavy heads of the blossoms

Seem to encourage straining to hear

The whispering of bees,

For they are always whispering

When there’s no relief from the heat.

Shadows here don’t form before mid-morning,

Then they shrink,

As they slowly, imperceptibly, swing round

The day.

In the scarecrow’s shade

The sunflowers do not move to follow the sun,

The sunflowers move.

Everyone knows you:

Who would destroy the temple,

And build it again,

You cannot save yourself and come down.

You have nothing of your own,

Only castoffs,

Rags and straw for a soul,

And any movement just a trick of the light.