Fields   

by Alan Crowe

For a moment, it didn’t quite register, in spite of my mental preparation. I had been informed the moniker was now in general use, and by showing no reaction, had just given it my tacit approval. That being said, I was a bit surprised that its initial pronouncement resurrected a long-forgotten childhood memory of disturbing sights and sounds. The menacing laughter and coal-black eyes of a towering creation of calico, denim and straw. Even more pronounced was the irrational pinpoint of fear it produced. Reason enough to let it stand.

Most would say it’s just a spin off my last name, but in truth, they know I’m called Scarecrow because that’s what I am. I spend my days in this world behind walls protecting the good things that grow from the bad things that would feed upon them.  Those black-hearted creatures with beady eyes that use cunning and audacity to steal what others have grown. Who not only seek to satisfy their physical hunger, but also the hunger for pleasure that comes from grappling one another for the choicest most tender morsels the fields provide. Merciless creatures that squawk and cackle at the impotent warders who man the walls and sow their fields with an endless supply of seed. Liveried minions who lord over the fields yet are unable to divert the chaotic flocks away from their handiwork. 

When I came to these fields, I had no intention of becoming the Scarecrow. In fact, I had no idea that such a being could exist. My intention was to build a strong enclosure around my little plot and assure my own survival. This I did. But in my shelter other seedlings found root as well, and soon my retreat was overgrown.

As that simple refuge was never designed for such pressure, the inevitable collapse exposed all to the beady eyes that covet the new growth. In response to raw vulnerability, long-dormant instincts resurface and my inescapable metamorphosis occurs. Reprising a role now refined by evolution and adapted to life in the fields, I became the Scarecrow.

In the uneasy détente that followed engagement, friendship and mutual benefit was offered, and declined. Wanting neither membership nor recognition, and never having imagined fields of my own, what was this Scarecrow to do? Couldn’t just stand by and watch them feed. Vulnerable seedlings took shelter under my outstretched arms, while others perished having no one to watch over them. In such a precarious existence, even a Scarecrow is vulnerable. A ravenous flock could pick one apart if hunger-driven. Flocks must feed. This I accept…just not in my fields.

Regardless of what the overlords may believe, life in the fields is dictated by the flocks. Their leaders are those smart enough or strong enough that others will follow where they lead. They have survived the battles for dominance, and demand and enforce loyal adherence to their will. With them, the unwritten, mostly unspoken agreements of mutual tolerance must be made. And this isn’t Oz. Here, Scarecrows must have brains, courage and heart if they hope to make it home again. 

Not yet halfway through, it’s been a long season already. While fewer losses occur as consequence of the ravenous flocks, not all predation is seen. Many of those new to the fields see proximity to these menacing bands as offering protection, but nothing grows under their roosts. Not drenched in the shower of pain-killing droppings they dispense to provide the dupes a haze over their hopeless existence in the fields. As their roots burn and shrivel in the acidic layers deposited beneath those murky cabals, young plants wither and slowly decompose. So flocks can’t roost near my fields. Not the Scarecrow’s fields. 

Without question, the most dangerous times for a Scarecrow are when the storms roll in. Tensions grow as you watch them building in the distance. If you’re lucky, they pass you by as they sweep the flocks along and wreak havoc in neighboring fields. Though some loss is inevitable, good comes from this as well. As it culls the weak, it makes those remaining stronger. It creates a little more wood in the stems of those who endure, making them better able to survive subsequent storms. But they take their toll on a Scarecrow, standing above his fields as he does. Weathers and tears his edges, exposing little bits of his insides. Each time making it a little more difficult to push the stuffing back in. But he does, producing ever more ominous versions, each more menacing than the last.

For the Scarecrow, it’s been a long season. Cool mornings seem so distant. He longs for quiet days and frosty nights. That peaceful rest as autumn turns to winter. He keeps telling himself that he won’t look back on this season, that he’ll just move on to the rest of his life. But he knows that won’t be. The season has been too long, and there are too many small pieces of him scattered in his fields.  

BIO

Alan Crowe is a freelance writer from southern Arizona. His writings have been published in Cowboy Poetry Press Anthology “Unbridled”, High Country News “Writers on the Range”, the Rokslide Sporting Journal and local Tucson print media.