The day light bleaches the ocher of stones to ghost faces, white
and mineral rich like bones, like chalk or dust, like ancient pounded salt.
The stalks grow weak and lean ever closer to their roots, soon to be joined
with soil as fine as talc, soil so barren it could never cradle a root. Clouds
like celestial mountains will not leak nor bring a deluge, they merely parade
across the sky, a spiteful mirage for the parched nomads that roam this desert.
Clouds as useless as a promise on the lips of a dead man.
As pointless as a lifetime guarantee, or a million dollar note, forgotten.
Who’s afraid of a man stuffed with straw? He could threaten action
but even the crows know that his fabric nose is only ripe
for plucking. They fear him about as much as the weather vane.
They love him as much as they fear the impotent clouds.
When the wind blows they lift their wings and croak out a cackle. And when
the scarecrow loses his knees to the sparrows, (My, what a nice nest you will make!)
the black ones lift their tails high and rattle their brains. Blow in the wind, scary man,
let the tornadoes take your hat! Let the weather vane show you
the quickest way to the Sun.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019