I found my weapons on the battlefield,
repelling the invaders of our golden hoard.
They swarmed, and clamouring,
massed for the attack.
Out of nowhere appeared a single form:
swift and true my lonely stone did fly
and fall to the golden field
where the vanquished lay.
And in that instant
I felt feathers brush my fingers
and the beat of a tiny heart in my hands,
the wind against my face
and my spirit soared,
but then I was just standing in a field of corn,
black with crows
and in my hands
a bundle of black feathers and a broken heart.
This is an old one. We had a school reading book about lives of Victorian children, and one of the stories was about a boy who was a sort of human scarecrow. The idea stuck with me for a long time, and eventually resulted in this.