I go out to shovel snow around the car, so we can get in and out and work in the wide world. My labors take me near our bird feeder, where chickadees are also working, extracting the hard to reach seed from the holes beneath the snow. I, in passing, reflect I should put in more seed so the birds can thrive in this winter white barrier.

The closer I get to the feeders the more the birds fly away and chirp angrily at me for disturbing their repast. The chickadees don't know that I am the one who put the seed in the feeder to begin with. And they can't see me when I watch them through the window next to the feeders, closer than I am when I shovel snow. I like songbirds. Ungrateful beasts.

As I move away from the feeder, they come back and eat, glad to have the intruding ogre leave. And it is fine, I am not there to disturb them, but to do my own work. The hour moves on and it is the same. As I move closer to the feeder the chickadees avoid me, as if I am a danger to them. When I move away, they are happy.

I am the chickadee.