The Slightly Retarded Kitty had watched the horde of marauding birds from behind the safety of glass as they returned again and again in a massive circling cloud to descend upon the mountain ash. She cackled in excitement as eighty or more birds shook the branches time and again, and tore at the berries. Then they would lift up into the sky in a single entity, swooping en masse to the next yard and the next street, only to return moments later for another round. A round for the house, Charlie, on me. It was a massive pub crawl of wintering birds, freshmen on a Friday night, as sick as the rest of us of the endless snow and cold.
When the SRK could stand it no longer, being separated from all this prey, these playthings, I opened the front door. As she slunk under the Muskoka chair on the front porch, the winged horde lifted from the tree for the final time, the air filling with a rush of flapping drunken wings. It was near deafening, the roar of feathers. You could all but feel the tsunami of displaced air as they flapped in unison and ascended.
Did we learn nothing from Hitchcock?