Discarded Nachos

Seagulls dance above me, circling the feathered clouds. They look for discarded nachos and hot dog buns. Meat burning in oil leaves a trail through the sky. Seed-sized scraps fall as the flock of people rise from their perches and chant in chorus to the people on the field who run with a misshapen egg. Their heads covered in a nest of plastic. Faces surrounded by metal cages. Shoulders spread to display. They have migrated and I remain. Laying on a field watching seagulls dance above me.