Birds of a Feather

I saw a flock of swallows today by the
riverbed. they were so fat, so smug;
each remained perfectly still as to
not ruffle their feathers.

you see, the winters have been warmer
and the humans have been generous
with their morsels of dried bread and
mustard seed.

the swallows speak of migration as if
it were an antiquated tradition, a folly
of their ancestors. not a single one of
them remembers how to fly.