sitting in the press box preening themselves.
Twittering here and there,
squawking at each other,
texting friends and family
and even occasionally checking out the game.
"Feed me! Feed me!" they cry
with their beaks open wide,
hungry gullets exposed.
Maybe they want to
gulp down more food and drink
or maybe they crave tasty morsels of info for their stories.
As the day closes on another game,
the columns filed, the reports in the can,
they stretch their necks
and fluff their feathers.
Lumbering into the air in formation,
they slowly flap their wings.
"Good job," they tell each other and head their separate ways.
[Twitter version: "At game, having fun. Somebody winning. Gotta go, something happening, crowd roaring."]