The scarecrow stands in the middle of the field, arms outstretched. He ... no, I cannot assign the masculine gender pronoun. Although dressed in male attire, in these androgynous times, nobody can be taken at face value. And scarecrows do not have genitalia, so I think I must use 'it' when referring to my subject.
Its principal function is to scare crows. To prevent the newly sown seed from being consumed by the birds. In this, my scarecrow has singularly failed. Its straw stuffing has attracted small birds to nest comfortably within. Its outstretched arms are serving as a perch for the larger species.
I am a farmer of principal. I grow my crops organically. My livestock are bred to the highest of welfare standards. The borders of my fields grow wild to give a home to the bees. I refuse to allow the culling of badgers on my land. The farmhouse is powered by solar panels and a windmill. So why is nature turning on me?
This is the fourth time I have reseeded this damned field. Those bloody birds have eaten it all. It is so tempting to stand guard with a shotgun and blast the little peckers to hell and back. But I won't. I am a farmer of principal. It doesn't matter that this field could produce enough money to feed my family for a couple of months. We can go hungry as long as the birds can eat their fill.
I kick the crap out of the useless scarecrow and the birds scatter. Not for long though. Within seconds they gather around their friend, protective of the useless object. I give up. The birds can stay. I wonder if there's a market for crow pie?