The moon, a dusty orange orb, hangs low in the skyline,

fringing the wind ushered clouds—outlining the early

morning darkness like a curvy line of fire floating above

the farm.

Addison watches the spectacle of nature unfurl with eyes

woken much earlier than usual. He gazes through the

shifting tentacles of a weeping willow, head positioned on a

soft moss covered root. The moss spreads out wide and

thick beneath him—compressing comfortably around his

boney pressure points.

The scarecrow had controlled the laws of physics yesterday,

encasing Clayton in a cast made out of his own headstone,

and unnaturally sent him up into the atmosphere and

beyond the moon.

Thoughts overflow Addison this morning, splashing

onto his wooden protector like holy water, wetting his image

of the scarecrow in utmost affection—like that of which he

can’t give his unknown and long since dead parents.

Like that of a god.