The scarecrow spun on his stick as the wind blew him, his arms pointing whichever way they could. He spun counterclockwise, and the decision was made. It was watched like that by the mice in the fields, those who knew that where the scarecrow's arms blew, there was trouble coming. For all the scarecrows were supposed to be fixed firmly in place, but the wisest of the mice had spoken and said that they must know if the portents were true. There had been blue rot in the corn before it was ripe, the insects had trebled in size, and other portents of doom had been noted in the fields. So the mice swarmed up the scarecrow and chewed through the bindings in the designated places that would make the portents plain. And the scarecrow had spun counterclockwise without pause for the week following, a response so grave that even the wisest of them had stuffed her cheeks with good corn and huddled in the corner, waiting for it to stop. On the eighth day, the scarecrow stopped--

Inspiration: Thinking of autumnal things, like scarecrows.
Story Potential: Low.
Notes: I want this to be higher potential than it is. Alas.