In the heart of a sprawling, golden wheat field, a decrepit scarecrow stands tall, its tattered form a testament to time's ravages. Faded flannel shirt hangs loosely over ripped jeans, held together by frayed threads, while a weathered straw hat tilts precariously atop the scarecrow's head. A burlap sack serves as a face, stitched eyes glinting menacingly beneath a wide, unsettling smile. As the late afternoon sun dips below the horizon, its warm glow casts long shadows across the field, where a few crows silhouette themselves against the sky. Meanwhile, one bold crow perches confidently on the scarecrow's shoulder, as if claiming dominion over this desolate yet strangely captivating landscape,impian2
