The Rats of Gotham

    The rats had really gotten out of hand in Gotham.  They had become so brazen I would find them by my front door in the morning, eating the seeds and bits of yellow corn that fell from my bird feeder.  I expected them to knock on the door, asking to borrow a cup of sugar. 
      Eventually, the rats died off.  Poison works.  Now when I look outside in the gray hours of dawn, I see these fat, sparrowesque birds scurrying on the ground under the feeder.  Sometimes I wonder:  are these really birds, or have the rats learned mind control?