I am the scarecrow

Just a-whiling a-way the hours...

When I go to the window I barely have to move to scare the huge black birds away from the feeder. It's too easy, like shifting my weight from one foot to the other. It could be the glittering reflection off the scarecrow's glasses that frightens them away. Yet, the delicate gray and brown quilt-feathered sparrows the size of my little finger remain courageous, and dig in wholeheartedly into the black sunflower seeds, shells flying out the sides of their mighty beaks like wood shavings, oblivious and paying no attention to the disheveled man behind the glass curtain.

The microwave dings (in the same key as the opening note of 'ding-dong the witch is dead', by golly!), and I shall now replace some of my lost stuffing with sirloin burger soup. A small grouping of crows are inching their way to the feeder again.