Lonely Scarecrow's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

The crow tilted its head and made a sound — not a caw, but something softer, almost like a question. The Scarecrow kept his arms stretched wide, his stance firm. He'd waited seven seasons to do this job right, and he wouldn't move now just because the bird seemed curious instead of scared. But the crow lifted off his shoulder and flew to the old maple tree at the field's edge. It landed on the highest branch and called out — three sharp notes that carried across the hills. The Scarecrow watched as two more crows appeared from the south, then another from the west. They circled once and landed near the base of the tree, where a pile of scattered corn seeds lay half-buried in the dirt. The first crow — the one that had perched on him — hopped down to join them. The Scarecrow took a step forward. His wooden crossbar groaned, and his boots sank into the soft earth. He'd never moved from his post before, but standing still hadn't worked. The birds were here now, feeding on seeds that must have spilled from the broken stalks in the old cornfield. If he couldn't scare them from where he stood, he'd scare them from where they ate. He raised his arms higher and took another step, then another, moving toward the tree with all the authority he could gather. The crows looked up. For a moment, they went still. Then the first crow made that soft sound again — the question — and they all went back to eating. The Scarecrow stopped halfway to the tree. His job was to scare birds. But these birds weren't scared. He'd moved, he'd tried, and they'd simply ignored him. He turned and walked back to his post, settling his boots into the worn grooves where he'd stood for seven seasons. The crows stayed at the tree. The Scarecrow stayed in his place. And for the first time, he wondered if doing his best might not be enough.