Karl the Scarecrow

Upon a hill where cold winds blow,
Stood Karl, the scarecrow, tall and stoic.
With tattered coat and eyes so hollow,
His silent watch was long and heroic.

The autumn sun would paint him gold,
As crows would circle, bold yet wary.
His arms stretched wide, so stiff, so cold,
A lonely guard, both strong and airy.

Through summer’s heat and winter’s frost,
Karl stood firm, though time was cruel.
His straw grew thin, his buttons lost,
Yet still he held his post, his rule.

One night, beneath the harvest moon,
A wandering wind, so wild and free,
Whispered secrets, hummed a tune,
And Karl swayed gently—longing to flee.

“I wish,” he thought, “to roam the land,
To leave this field, to dance, to see.”
But bound by roots, by thread, by hand,
His fate was sealed—eternally.

Still, in the morning light he stands,
His duty carved in sky and ground.
A faithful soul, with weathered hands,
Forever lost, yet ever found.