Birds of Bowral

This morning I was woken by a cacophony of kookaburras. Laughing hysterically outside the door that leads from my lovely hotel room to the wide veranda. What they find so funny is something I would like to know. They seem to be a sentinel sort of bird, not at all timid. Watching intently whatever it is they see and bursting in to raucous laughter at I don't know what.

Is it me they're laughing at? Is it someone else? I'm fairly sure it's people because if it was other birds surely they'd never stop.

In between their outbursts I could hear the gentle twittering of a mother starling getting her chicks ready for breakfast, organising them in to their Sunday best no doubt, the beautiful yet sad three note call of a honeyeater and the whingeing of a single cockatoo looking for company.

A beautiful broad-winged cockatoo popped down from his lofty heights to visit with me yesterday afternoon. He seemed convinced that if he flexed his sulphur crest enough times I'd magically produce sunflower seeds. Sorry sunshine - I didn't come prepared. If I had any I would surely share them (unshelled of course) with you.

If only he knew how admired he was by me. They probably already know this which is why they visit - this is what I'm telling myself for now.

I have questions for you birds - naturally.

What's it like to be free? It looks pretty amazing and I have no doubt it is, but still I want to know.

Do you rosellas know how truly beautiful you are? Is that why you flit so quickly? Has your intense colouring taught you to mistrust the human race?

What's it like to fly?

What do you swallows do all day? Why do you dart so freely and so fast? What is it you need to get done in such a hurry? Is it little midges you're chasing or are you worried that you won't finish your task? Does all that swooping ever make you feel slightly ill like too many rides on a ferris wheel?

But I guess the truth of it lies in the design of your wings. You're built to swoop and dart with the agility of an acrobat.

I sat out on the Fitzroy Terrace this afternoon to watch the afternoons' performance of the Last Gasp of The Sun over the valley. You have to see it to know what I am trying to describe. The sun seems to heave a last contented sigh - tainting the ghost gums at the valley's end the softest shade of pink you could imagine, as it drops further down over the crest of the ranges behind us, the last gasp of the sun touches the crests of the wild grasses and turns them golden. The shadows the trees cast could be the finger paintings of angels, so delicate yet bold and far-reaching.

For just a moment, there is peace and quiet as even it would seem he animals and the birds are marveling at this unfolding scene. Just for a moment they pause to take in the closing of yet another day, and the beginning of the night. They seem to take signal that now with the going down of the sun is now the time for getting ready for bed - at least for the day creatures, the night creatures are stirring, yawning, stretching and organising themselves for the night of foraging and feasting (and partying - if you're a possum) that lies ahead of them.

The magpies and the noisy miners appear to have an ongoing battle for possession of the Norfolk pine tree that stands guard at the turn of the driveway. I'm convinced it's one of the oldest trees on the property, it's mid-upper branches are straggly and downward pointing so long it appears to have been reaching for the sky. They seem tried to continually be stretching outward and have drooped in their effort. The magpies have either have always had possession and the noisy miners think they can boss them out of their tree, or, it belonged to the noisy miners and by sheer cunning (such is the way of the magpie) the magpies have managed to snaffle it for themselves.

The magpies appear baffled as to why the noisy miners keep flying straight up at them. It could be a clever act or it could be that they're genuinely shocked at the audacity. A magpie decides to risk it but the noisy miners are on for the chase.
‘Safety in numbers boys!’ the ringleader cries as they position themselves to take on the lone maggie. Back to the nest the magpie flees. The noisy miners go back to their tree (right next door to the Norfolk pine) to wait for the next hapless winged bid for freedom.

Way up high above the Elms Wing a lone crow circles and cries.

'Ark ark aaAAAAark' he announces to all who will listen.

'I'm a crow' he seems to say - 'the highest Crow in the sky, watch me dive and turn on a sixpence'.

Crows don't know that we don't use sixpence any more. We have fifty cent pieces instead, and digital phones and laptops and ipods but none of this has ever really been important to a crow. Their main purpose seems to be pushing each other off roosts, or keeping an eye out for discarded food scraps. They're funny too - when they land it's as if they're surprised to discover they have feet. And what big feet they have too! Gigantic great paddles of things. Their claws clatter and slide over terracotta roofs of houses and I wonder how on earth they manage to keep a grip so shiny do their toes appear to be.

Some people say they're a nuisance. But I wonder if they too don't occasionally stop to admire the sheer breadth of a fully-grown crows wingspan, or wonder why on earth all of their feathers are so black? Black traps heat so they are the wrong colour for the midday sun at the height of summer. I wonder if the crows know this? Why didn't they get made a different colour? Why would you make a crow black and expect it to survive the heat of a fierce summers’ day?

The country crows have curved tips on their wings to help them float further and higher in their quest for food. Their wings sillouhette against the sky so perfectly it's breathtaking to watch. The next time you see a crow watch how it flies. It flip-flops it's wings to a certain height and then it will stretch out its wings to the furthest they will go. Then it will swoop and dive so gracefully you wonder how on earth this is possible for the size of the body of the bird - and this is half the magic I am sure. Until of course their giant feet hit the ground and then they skitter about with the gangliness of a teenaged boy whose just grown a foot in height overnight.

This crow it seems is looking for a bed for the night. Just one for one he seems to ask? Just for one? Noooo, say the magpies living in the Norfolk pine - you can't come here - we're full. The rosellas are so pretty yet haughty and know better than to converse with a lowly crow on the prowl for a nest for the night. They ignore him.

The ducks gathering at the eighteenth hole of the golf course are too busy foraging for the grubs they love to notice. They're ducking and bobbing their heads as they wag their tails to keep each other in line of sight. These ducks aren't the sort to make a quack about much, they burble on contentedly to each other but it's more of a gossipy conversation, not like the raucous laughter of the kookaburra. Occasionally two or three of the smaller ducks will venture too close to the big duck at the front of the flock. This seems to annoy him immensely - he ducks his head and runs straight at them quacking crossly. Someone obviously has to reinforce the pecking order and such is the nature of these sorts of things - that's the task of the biggest duck in the flock.

The other morning from high up on my balcony I could see a duck sitting on his own in the middle of a golf green. At first I wasn't sure if it was a rabbit who'd come to an untimely end or if it was a duck being unwell. After watching it for a while, it turned out to be a little duck that was either stuck or not very well.

I decided that I should go and take a closer look. If the duck was injured as it appeared to be what would I do then? I decided I should take a cardigan with me - if I needed to I could fling the cardigan over the duck and escort it to care - they're much easier to manage if they've got their heads covered as anyone who has dealt with an injured animal will tell you. We don't have a way of assuring animals that we're going to take care of them and make them better - so it's best to cover their eyes whilst they're in transport. This duck was going to receive the soft swoosh of my fine spun cashmere cardigan over it if need be, so it had better bloody appreciate it.

The duck seemed to be swivelling his head round and half-heartedly quacking. I kept walking towards it. He seemed to spring to life right in front of me. Up on his feet he went. Flick-flick-flick went his little feet. 'Who?' he quacked at me as if asking me the full question was too much effort. And just like that he flapped off. Down over the creek to the other side where he touched down and stood watching me warily from a distance. Nothing wrong with the duck after all. Apparently he was sulking. And I'd disturbed the display.

Sorry mister duck, I didn't mean any harm.

(But here's a tip - probably best not to sulk in the middle of a golf course - it does gets you attention but not from the lady-ducks which is what I think the fuss is all about).

I saw a little ground wren this afternoon. So joyful was its little hopping dance of bug-catching I almost laughed right out loud. Just in the nick of time I held back from letting forth one of my bird-scaring guffaws. It was so sweet with its little brown head popping up and down as it hopped over bushes to get lunch on the run. I don't think it heard me as it kept right on
at its task of hopping and scurrying.

The language of birds is to me, one of the greatest mysteries of life. It delights and mildly frustrates me that I will never truly know what the birds are saying. I can only guess and invent conversations that I think they might be having amongst their flock and for this I have and always will love them for the grace and wonder they lend the world in their endeavours and adventures. I still cannot fathom and most likely never will, the distance that migratory birds will travel and how, for no other purpose than procreation. This surely should be written up as the eighth wonder of the world. In my book at least.