Frost and Feathers

This year in the Blue Mountains, Summer hung on well into Autumn's allotted months, and Winter has only finally begun to fight its way into the valley on top of the mountain.  It's first assaults were brief forays, soon pushed back by balmy days and drying winds.

But at last, after some rain, a little snow fell.  It soon melted, but since then frosts have taken control of the mornings, and the scent of wood fires has permeated the evenings. The rhythm of the day has changed.  The kookaburras don't bother with their dawn chorus until the sun has properly climbed into the blue, and the magpies don't come looking for their breakfast treat until the golden light has reached over the tree tops and begun to melt the ice that seals the top of the bird bath.

Before the rays of warmth get past the trees, there is already movement - a pair of red-browed finches sorting through the remants of yesterday's offering to the rosellas and parrots.  Tiny bundles of pale olive-brown, visible only because of their bright red visor, they seem comfortable in a landscape stilled and muted by a thin layer of frost.

White crystals rest on the twigs and leaves, and lay on the grass like the finest muslin.  Nearby, the broccoli leaves show dark green through the white veins of ice, and the cauliflower leaves seem grey instead of the blue-green that daylight will give them.  When the frost has smoked away in the sun's warmth, all the brassicas, even the cabbages, will show some variation of green, but with a hint of blue that seems irresistable to the red whiskered bulbuls and the satin bower birds.

Some of the yellow jonquils and white narcissus are already blossoming, undeterred by the frost and snow, while the apple trees that mistakenly flowered in May are blushing now at their error, and trying to hunker down for the Spring that wasn't really here.

As soon as the first rays of the sun reach into the clearing in front of the house, the larger birds arrive too. They are abundant, colorful, and noisy - food can be scarce at this time of year, so the offerings we make tend to draw a crowd.

The brilliant green shoulders and ripe-tomato breasts of the king parrots, and the brilliant crimson and blue of the rosellas brighten the the almost bare limbs of the oak tree, and their squabbling for the best twigs shakes a few more brown leaves to the ground.

The male crimson rosellas spend the first few minutes blustering at each other like miniature, brightly coloured sea lions on the mating beaches of the southern ocean.  Rising up on their talons, they bump chests and make threats with their beaks, while chittering and chirruping loudly.  Each confrontation is over in moments, and, unlike the sea lions, blood is never drawn.

When the crisp black and white of the magpies swoops in towards the veranda, everyone ducks for cover.  All returns to normal as soon as the magpies begin singing, and the smaller birds know that the butcher bird and currawong won't dare come near them.  Our landlords, the magpies, are jealous of their property rights - parrots, honeyeaters, finches, wrens, spinebills, and silvereyes are all treated as part of the scenery, but the magpies do not welcome their cousins into their territory.

The smaller birds take no chances, though, and flit through the shadows of the shrubs and bushes in the gardens, brief glimpses of brown, black and white, yellow,and buff,  scattering tiny chiming peals as they keep track of friends and family.  When they lay claim to territory, they are careful to do so from within the thickets, where they can keep a careful watch out for the bigger birds that might threaten them.

When every tree top is full of sunlight, the sky fills with the screeching of yellow crested white cockatoos, holding loud, long range conversations as they decide which of their favoured foraging grounds to visit first.  Soon, when the day is full, the tiny bells and the larger chirps and squawks will fall silent, as even the parrots seek shelter from the occasional hawk that patrols the ridge beyond the creek.

They'll be back, though, with all their colour and music, when the shadows stretch out from the trees to cross the lawns and clearings, and the latent frost of tomorrow begins nipping at ears and noses that are braving the clear evening air of Winter.