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SCARE CROW I'd searched out the refuge of a shadeless old beech tree. Seemed like a perfect resting spot for the midday nap for me. I'd passed up shady undercover of an overgrown weeping willow. Cause the flat rock under my beech could serve well as my pillow. I recall the screeching of their calls and piercing cries. As a band of crows scavaged overhead when I first closed my eye. Below the old bridge I'd crossed, I recall the fresh 'road-kill'. That 'black-flock' found it too, picking bones rejoicing shrill. I drifted off feeling restless, I laid so still, so stiff and prone. I dreamed of the many vultures picking flesh from my own bone. Suddenly, I awoke too soon! To a warm and wet 'ker-splat'. Then saw wet-milky residue dripping freely from my hat. Guess I must have scared him as the crow flew from my head. Though I'd felt a little 'dumped-on' was just grateful I tweren't dead. |
Additional Notes:
'Black-flock' is what my grandpa always looked for, while looking for a
wounded animal. He would peer the sky for the scavaging crows where the
animal could usually be found 'expired' below them.
tweren't- I realize is not proper grammer, but it excatly how my grandpa
would have said it, so that's how it's spelled.
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