Swallows

The swallows have not fledged nor flown.
They stay within their comfort zone,
Perched in a row atop the nest,
With pale orange banners on their chest,
Awaiting pre-digested food.
(My God! That still seems awfully crude,
But it's the only food they've ever known.)

But come tomorrow they'll be gone,
No more to grace my twilight lawn.
Without a star, nor GPS
To guide them, they will go, I guess.
Itinerant insectivore,
Continuing in nature's plan
For catching flies in Yucatan;
Since its ancestral species dawn;
A feathered dart above some distant shore.

P.S.  Not 30 minutes after I wrote this poem,  the swallows nesting beneath my portico roof had indeed fledged.  By tomorrow, they will leave the area for the season.
P.P.S.   Generally, we cats do not write about small birds--we simply eat them.  But on this occasion, Runcible Cat makes an exception.