The birds were laughing at me. It was a humiliation I could not quite comprehend, beyond all units I'd learned to measure.

Birds. These were creatures not made to taunt. Given hollow bones to fly, sure, and a cackling squawk to define the species in both call and serenade. They did not talk, though. Nor should they communicate with me, let alone mock my everyday contretemps!

How degrading is that?

They weren't even supposed to be here, anyways. Didn't all demons with wings fly south for the winter? Or was this a new habit? To stick around and laugh about my failings? My inability to shovel even the lightest coat of snow without slipping and crashing to the ground.

What was this?

Oh, and he was still there, that old man across the street. That impertinent old man! Pushing that blasted snow-blower of his and tossing those mottled chunks of precipitation to the end of my formerly pristine driveway.

After all the time I'd spent breaking ice and shoveling--being sure to clear down to the bare and rocky pavement. Despite all of my painful falls and those bloody cackling birds, laughing at my expense, he continued to repaint my drive with snow. After having watched me all morning in the bitterest of cold, working with a dear shovel where he had that evil contraption.

Oh, if looks could kill! A sad old man, whatever they say! Hardly so sad to me. His losses were long ago, and my degrading was crashing in currents. No pity would come from me.

Hands red raw and molded firmly to the handle of my tool, face struck immovably in a glare beyond my control, I stomped over to the bushes.

The man I might have no control over. The human may have the sympathy of so many and may continue on his way. What, really, against him could I do? Yell upon deaf ears? Sabotage a snow-blower only to have to buy one for him later? No, the world favored the elderly. The world saw sorrow. The world would not see me.

As far as those giggling demons, though. Those I had some power over. And towards those I swiped my shovel, striking down upon the bush where ever movement sprung. Twirling, swinging, manic until the last had fled in terror--silenced of its mockery.

People I may not be able to go up against. People may be able to torment me on so very many occasions. But I would not stand for any more. Not any longer.

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Random scrawlings in resource? But of course.