in a shorn midnight field he stands rooted,

canting to the right in the warm fetid wind.

worn patchwork shroud blowing against his rotting frame,

straw brittle and moldering and infested;

his waxen features slowly melting in the unnatural october heat.

thunder echoes sullenly in the distance,

and the crows perched upon his sagging shoulders shift;

cawing uneasily as he seems to grin malevolently at the

lightning streaked sky.