Condors on the Wrong Coast

A flock of young condors, with feathers quite grand,
Grow tired of cliffs, dust, and too much dry land.
They dream of the East, where the Atlantic tides foam,
And set off to find a new seaside-y home.

They flap through the heartland, they glide past the plains,
With big coastal dreams and map-scribbled brains.
But a twist in the wind sends them way off their track-
To Florida's beaches (they don't want that back!).

Then north to New York, with its concrete and clatter,
Where pigeons wear hats and taxis all chatter.
At last, they reach Maine with its cold, salty charm-
But discover the East Coast's not all that warm.

With icicles forming on feathers and feet,
They learn that adventure is thrilling-but sweet
Are the cliffs they once left, the sun and dry air...
Because home isn't where-it's the love that lives there.

So they head back West with big tales to boast,
Of the wrong kind of right on the wrong kind of coast.