Lonely Scarecrow's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

The Scarecrow stood in his field, arms stretched wide, doing exactly what he'd been placed here to do. Seven seasons had passed without a single bird, but that didn't trouble him. It meant he was getting a head start. It meant when they finally arrived, he'd be ready. His burlap face had faded from gold to pale straw. His jacket hung loose where the stuffing had settled. The wooden crossbar that held his arms straight creaked when the wind pushed hard enough, but it never broke. Around him, wild grass grew tall between the forgotten rows of corn. Thistles had claimed the eastern corner. The fence that once marked the field's edge leaned at angles, held up more by habit than nails. Then one morning, a crow dropped from the sky and landed on his left shoulder. The Scarecrow felt the grip of small claws through his worn sleeve. He waited for the bird to startle and fly away. It didn't. It settled its feathers, turned its head, and looked straight at him with one bright eye. The crow stayed. It hopped from shoulder to hat brim and back again. The Scarecrow stood perfectly still, arms wide, exactly as he'd been taught. For seven seasons he'd waited to do his job, and now his moment had come. The bird refused to leave, and the Scarecrow refused to fail. He would stand here, patient and faithful, until he scared this crow away or the farmer returned to tell him otherwise.