Birds of A Feather

There's a flock of birds before me,
Feathered all unique.
They pitter and patter and tweet.
All while tolerating my company,
Ignoring my handful of crumbs.
Only looking when it suits them to peck,
With hardened beaks.
It's been made clear,
That I am no bird,
Any feathers that I own,
Glued on and dulled.
For all they look and all they say,
Those dear little birds flap away.
Leaving a hand pecked dry,
A featherless bird,
Aching to join the flight.