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.
Writer and photographer from remote Labrador, Canada. Just another cold Labradorian chillin' in the Big Land. Can most likely be found walking my dog Grace or behind an iMac screen slowly taking over the interwebs.