What a cruel fate for that cornhusk mannequin
crucified in the farmer’s field.
Every day he watches purple martins swoop through dusk
like paint strokes across parchment,
starling murmurations perched on pine limbs like tinsel,
storks spindled atop cello string legs,
crossbills with cherry petal plumage, cashmere-songed doves,
and his favorite, the crows, those cenobitic shadows.
How happy he’d be to offer bellyfillings of corn,
listen to their satisfied roucoulements as they feed at his feet.
But clothed in the image of his creator,
he’s designed to frighten birds into the hungry distance
the way divine wisdom
flocks away from our feeble prayers.