A bird flies South,
Over many rivers and streams,
Prairies and Mountains,
Bringing with it thousands of dreams.
A bird flies North,
Over Snow and Ice,
Watching cold people below,
No winter coat will suffice.
Another flies East,
Over Europe and the Atlantic,
Seeing cars one the wrong side of the road,
And hearing accents that are thick.
The Final Bird doesn't go anywhere,
They sit where they are and don't budge an inch,
No Mountains, Snow or Heat,
Only himself and the world around him.
Now pick your bird,
Which one do you choose,
Are you a traveler, for sights or heat?
Or do you use what you're dealt with and try not to lose?