What happens when the blackbirds escape the pie they were baked in?

There are, according to my mother, 40,000 birds in my garage. That’s right. Forty thousand. Four, zero, comma, zero, zero, zero. I have a nice house. But I’m not a Rockefeller. I don’t have a garage that would house 40,000 birds—no even tiny hummingbirds. And quite frankly, I don’t think 40,000 of anything would fit…