Straw Scarecrow (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

Straw Scarecrow

The prognosis was in tempo with a dire dirge and an unyielding prelude to the weeds in the corn field and the dishes piled high in the sink. He commended his nephews for the hedonistic pleasure of Truffles in milk chocolate and the bouquet of hibiscus weeds in want of a vase and the cool drink of water that a pouring rain shower might have brought.
Looking out the dirty window pane he hazarded a glance at the straw scarecrow. Corn shoots quivered and shook with the enveloping assurance of crucified scarecrows and warm summer wind. Weeds, Ragweed and thorn scrub had sprouted between the rows of wavering corn. Cotton dander plaid, he remembered wearing the scarecrows shirt. He had been younger and in good health.
Autumn leaves drifted in piles against the window sill, crumbling signifiers of the winter to come. He depressed the latch on the oaken window frame and rolled the window up slowly, in a beseeching squeal. The dish of rose water oil stirred and sloshed over onto the sill. He inhaled deeply taking in the cool primeval fall fare.
Looking at the scarecrow again he realized it was missing something. He rummaged in the confines of his closet for a moment, finally pulling out a topcoat. It needed a topcoat. Smiling he went outside to the rows of corn and the promise of tomorrows harvest.