Harvest Dusk

Scarecrow, scarecrow, you stand alone.
Scarecrow, scarecrow, you have straw for toes.

Stuffing peeks through your chambray shirt.
Your beaten leather head hangs ever so low.

Are you low?  Low and lonely, old scarecrow?
What does the corn whisper when wind rustles from row

To row to row?  What does the corn say
when the wind rattles it slow?

Did it tell you a storm's on the way to make dirt dance?
Tell me, old scarecrow, what you know when you have a chance.