bird storm

I was sitting at an enormous outdoor table, designed to seat about forty people. The table was made of old grey wood and either side was flanked by a long wooden bench. Most of the guests had already departed or were no longer seated at the table. I had a sense that I had shifted from my seat on one side toward the middle of the table, to where I was now seated, at the far end on the other side. I was deep in conversation with a few others, surrounded by the leftover food and remains of our lunch. As we talked, I noticed that one of my companions was distracted by something on the horizon. I followed her gaze and saw a dark cloud approaching with alarming speed. As the cloud advanced, we could see that it was not actually a cloud of vapour or dust; rather, it was a vast flock of birds, so thick with feathers, clawed feet and beaks, that the sky blackened and the air resounded with screeching, flapping and twittering. Those of us remaining at the table quickly slid underneath, sheltering from the passing storm. We could hear the birds at the bottom of the cloud flying so low that parts of their bodies scraped and scratched against the old wooden table, and scattered the glasses, cutlery, paper plates and food scraps. Everything in the path of the birds was destroyed but we were safe under the table.