brazen.

The dust settles quickly beneath the wings of the crow,
dancing proudly on the cold-as-concrete ground.

He did the best he could.

He watched ceremoniously at the fields below,
burning by the hand of another stupid human.

The flights he took.

A silhouetted figure passes by quietly, swiftly.
He doesn’t move. Brazen.

“What won’t you humans do for a little revenge?” he cawed.

He bows his head, eyes closed.

A gunshot rings out, and all the fields for miles lay burning.
But the scarecrow at the foot of the hill stood tall. Brazen.

M.

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