Maintaining a scarecrow by replacing
the guts.
They tie a belt around the bottom
to keep them in.
Its eyes are made of old
coins from countries that haven’t existed
for decades.
The sun hits them at an angle
giving them a shine that almost mimics
yours and mine.
It always feels like wasting time,
standing in the shade of their cross.
Bending blades of grass into right angles
that over time slowly stand up straight again.
Finding shapes in the senseless sky
unapologetic in its randomness.
They pull them down to earth with just
their eyes.

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