Long past midnight they’re assembling it-
Shunting posts into shallow earth,
Filing down the gargoyle teeth,
Then stopping to turn up their thick collars.
Tonight they’re greasing the hinges of the front gate
With a grease that makes them squeak even more.
They’re stuffing a dead dog full of hayseed and twigs
To give it the impression of being accustomed to fear.
They’re carving faces on the trees-
Grotesque faces, with mismatched eyes.
And the ravens aren’t fooled: they keep right on
Congregating in the barren wheat field
And the ravens kept respectfully silent,
Where the scarecrow was shuddering
Afraid his secret had been found out.
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