The crow crowed back, Scarecrow, let me take you away to live in a tall tree. I’ll be a true crow wife to you if you’ll marry me.
The Scarecrow considered. Crow, tell me how a groom with a broomstick spine can take a bride. I know you believe in the love in these button eyes but I’m straw inside and straw can’t fly.
The crow pecked at his heart with her beak then flapped away, and back and forth she flew to him all day, all day, until she pulled one last straw from his tattered vest and soared across the sun with it to her new nest.
And there she slept, high in her tree, winged, in a bed of love. Night fell. The slow moon rose over a meadow, a heap of clothes, two boots, an empty glove.
