Spirit of the Rows

In a harvest field of Autumn, met within a maze intricate and inticing, was placed alone, a guard of stick bone, tied together in knots of sinew. A burlap face, showed no sign of living eye and only the jagged cuts  meant to be vacant sockets.

Cast off clothes of tattered flannel and denim it's singualr attire, they hung upon its frame, catching breeze to flutter and frighten. 

A silent stare and motionless state would remain its fate until one Samhain mid-night. When ancient magic rose from forbidden parts unknown, to infuse the solitary figure with purpose, mind and reason.

After that day it is said as evening falls upon the ground that is less than sacred, a solid spirit moves among the rows, there to take any who would enter after suns setting.

Witout a trace they are gone, where they go a haunting mystery that lingers. 

And the spirit of the Scarecrow lives in the tales of the old, carried on by the forever wary, to be found and known in dread by those who will listen into tomorrow.