Crow was eating Scarecrow’s brain.
Scarecrow didn’t care.
He didn’t have a brain.
He was a big stuffed mannequin without
a feeling anywhere.
Or, so they thought.
Enough time standing in a cornfield,
watching the sun rise and set,
watching the stars wheel above,
will change anyone.
Eventually, surprising them both, Scarecrow said,
“Crow. What are you doing?”
Then ruffled his feathers, and said,
“So. That’s why they call you Scarecrow––
you don’t even know if you’re here, or
if you’re not.”
Crow flew away.