There are things living in this field that will, by rights, be dead by tomorrow morning. One of them hangs on a splintery pole, its roots burrowing deep in rich black soil. Green vines climb through tattered clothes nailed to the pole and its crosspiece. They twist through the legs of the worn jeans like tendons, twine like a cripple's spine through a tattered denim jacket. Rounded leaves take succor from those vines like organs fed by blood vessels, and from the hearts of those leaves green tendrils sprout and the leaves and the vines and the tendrils fill up that coat and the arms that come with it.
A thicker vine creeps through the neck of that jacket, following that last few inches of splintery pole like a backbone, widening into a rough stem that roots in the thing balanced on the pole's flat crown.
That thing is heavy, and orange, and ripe.
That thing is a pumpkin.
Image from Spooky Blue. Make your own pumpkin-headed scarecrow here.
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