Like threads of an entwined rope,
They danced as one.
Of one kind,
They flapped and fluttered,
Swirling ceremoniously around gulmohars.

They hover around these fiery petals.
But,
Never too close or they feel they would burn.

They wake with the other chirpers
As the first pink and plum blossoms over the horizon.
And
They are lovers, you would assume.

They are not.

They are merely gliding to the rhythmic tune
of the charmer,
Who shape-shifts and changes colour according to seasons.
They feel compelled to bow to the moods of his notes.
They think he follows the same rules he, so pompously, creates.
Well, if he can make them with a swelled up chest, he can bend them and melt them as he fancies.

Poor chaps just got caught up.
Flapping  and gliding endlessly, duty-bound to the melody of his reed.