Straw whispers in the wind.
Dora, on her right, rustled. "Doesn't even look like one of us. Did you see those eyes?"
Geraldine had. Her own crudely painted eyes would have squinted, if they could, at the new arrival in the field across the way. Could it even be called a scarecrow? The eyes were great shimmering disks with small holes in the middle. Could he—it?—see them the way they could see it?
"Great, stupid arms," came the hiss on the wind from Myrtle, to the left. "Sure, it might work a bit better, but at what cost? Batteries aren't cheap. Bert is laughing at him."
Geraldine wasn't laughing. She stared at the awkward construction. It flailed its arms. It stopped. It leaned a bit in the wind and the eye-disks flashed. It did not talk to them. The crows wheeled and tilted above.
"There have been studies."
Myrtle and her studies. Not that she could read them, of course, but she heard about them. Bert talked a lot. There was something to be said for—or at least about—a man who talked to his scarecrows.
"If it does work," sighed Dora, "all the farmers will be getting them."
Geraldine stood on her stake and stared. The wind sifted through her straw hair. Should she say hello?