We would sit out there with the scarecrow, for while he may have scared away an entire murder (for that is what a group of crows is called), his golden stuffing whispered new dreams to my heart.
I never saw such loving arms as the ones of the scarecrow, my father's old shirt stuffed with the gold of our last blessed season, arms wide, smile ever-lasting.
Anyone who thinks a straw-man can't be tough never saw the scarecrow. He took on the storms without shelter or warmth, his smile effervescent.
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