They live among us but we do not notice them. They are not different to the eye. No wings or three-toed feet. No beaks or wild, elaborate plumes.
The birdmen are here though. They wake and work as we do, waiting for the call.
The tedious jobs they have to do, the long commutes, the dull TV evenings. The wife, the kids, the house, the blue or silver car.
It is all part of the act. No one would suspect them of greatness, of their birdman powers. You would walk right past them.
The birdmen know they must keep their greatness secret, not tell another. Not their wife. Not even their friend they suspect might be a birdman too. They must hide it all, waiting for the call.
One day the call will come. And we will see their greatness. They will spread out their wings, unwrinkling them majestically. They will soar into the sky.
Then you’ll see their finery. Then you’ll see.