After the war was over the birds returned to flight without fear of airplanes or projectiles hitting them midair. The explosions had gone on sabbatical; they’d earned it. The birds could hear each other’s songs again. They mated like winged teenagers.
Stuck like gum to the earth below, the humans were growing nervous. They had too much time on their hands. They began to cover their buildings with spikes to protect their hairstyles and welcome mats from the inevitable bird shit. But covering yourself with spikes never works. Eventually, they had to plan another war.