There is a field in which a scarecrow stands.

Whence, what or where, who can remember. Fields as Gods are made and unmade since the time began, yet she stans utside- parallel, if not anthithetical, but more on her later.

We all have an imprint on That, the veiled, the spiritual, the oft-not-seen but ne'er-forgot. There are those who don't believe, though yet the Gods would tell us so, they do not, and this is them.

To return. There stands a scarecrow in a field.
Rooted fast yet fear does wield. Bird of black, white and brown fly o'er in hushed tones, cautioned beats, more a minute than I care to count, and that scarecrow stands within that field.

So is crow'd from crow to crow

Do not then to that field go

At twilight dusk, in umber glow
There stands Menace, a scare-crow

For there is reapt what there is sow'd
And sow'd is sin and reapt is death

Come now, crowling, go to bed

So is crow'd from crow to crow.

Yet came of age, a crowling crows
To that field then I shall go

At twilight, dusk, but cloth and wood
Straw-filled hate with storied heart

For I am bright and young and swift of wing
Such I crow from crow to crow

As to that dusken field I go

A crowling alights, perched upon the shoulder of a fiend of great report. Come the birds and yea they crow, and he crows back, but is ill heard. What but warped and withered wood stood upon that fertile field.

Fr none is seen but Menace upon that field, and Malice upon his shoulder. Kin and not yet fly above, yet none is seen beyond the old, ere it's crow'd, from crow to crow.

Do not then to that field go
That darkness now is all he'll know

Time does pass and crowling stood
With wings of straw and beak of wood

Come the harvest, come the farmers
Come to feed the hungry masses

Hail, they say, to crowling wee
Perched upon a blackened tree
These fields protected by us three
tis plain enough to see
You are no different to me

And a crowling nods.

Then a bird does land, and he can see a crowling, well enough as he!

But ... She is not

Soft of feather and black of beak
She alights, to feed, and does not heed

The scare-crow Menace with Malice both

The crowling smiles and grips a knife and, with it, takes another's life-

This is no place for crows, you know
These fields are mine

No sparrow, no black-bird, nor a starling
Will ruin now tomorrow's harvest

Lest you be reapt ere you been sow'd

So it's crow'd from crow to crow

You are no different than he


So a whisper, fiend to crow



You are no different than me.



Penned by my hand on the 25th of Chronos, in the year 835 AF.