The growl of a neighbour's lawn-mower has been obvious for an hour or so, and now, as the wind shifts, that wonderful scent of fresh-mown grass and clover is drifting in through one window and down the length of the house, searching for an exit.
Other, more distant, mowers have woken from their dry-winter slumbers over recent days, and even mine has poked its nose out of the garden shed for a little exercise, smashing the drifts of brown plane-tree leaves to a less water-repellent compost. It's back in the shed now, waiting for another warm spell, and the rosellas and other birds are, I think, grateful. All those areas yet unmowed are thick with tiny flowers and little seeds and subtle herbs that feed the birds, or feed the things upon which some of the birds feed.
As well as crimson rosellas, king parrots, and various honey-eaters, the finches, silver-eyes, wrens, magpies, currawongs, and kookaburras all look happy exploring the explosion of life that is our little vale in spring time. Even ducks and herons call in from time to time.
We humans and our machines are well behind the times, though - long before any of us thought of mowing, those first good showers of rain swept in a few weeks ago and woke the green shoots across the brick-bare earth beyond the front hedge, where the passing shoes and boots of locals and tourists had seemed to have worn the grass to dust. Within weeks there were patches of grass long enough to dampen the shoes, and even the socks, of travellers.
The moisture softened what had seemed impenetrable, and suddenly there were thousands of little holes and twisted coils of worm-castings as the hidden workers woke, wriggled, and flourished - opening, aerating, and fertilizing the soil. The earth-worms do for free what would otherwise cost us many hours and dollars. Few humans would willingly work as long and as hard as the worms do, and fewer would achieve the improvements these labourers contribute to the world they draw sustenance from.
Hidden buds swelled and opened, and just as suddenly, the bees were humming and buzzing in throngs as they searched through the hedges, herbs and vegetable gardens. Stems and twigs that seemed beaten down or even killed by the frost and bitter winds of winter found new suppleness - verdant or rosey blushes spread, and flowers that seemed unlikely a few weeks ago now draw crowds of avian and apian admirers as they trade nectar for procreative assistance.
Beautiful in its own right, this dance of insect and plant creates a wealth of food - honey, fruit, berries, and vegetables - and it happens whether we are watching or not. We can help, if we are careful, by fostering the growth of the plants that will provide food and shelter for all those natural workers - many of whom we rarely notice or know -and avoiding acts that will harm them.
How can we know if we are doing good or ill? That is a task that will occupy lifetimes of taking the five senses out into the garden and the bush - our lifetimes, and those that came before us, written or recorded for our benefit. There are those who will teach us, if we are willing to live out there with them, touching, smelling, tasting, seeing, and hearing.
Showing posts with label Birds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Birds. Show all posts
Sunday, 16 September 2018
Tuesday, 11 September 2018
Warming up
The transition from winter to spring seems to have been more precise and punctual than is usual for the Blue Mountains. Winter was clear, dry, and often frosty.
The wind arrived to blow the frost away, and our lake became a bonsai version of a storm-tossed ocean.
The snow, when it fell, settled mostly on the ranges beyond the Cox's River, and only a few flakes drifted across our gardens when the wind swung a little. Finally, the rain arrived.
The blossoms that had been latent were suddenly bright in bush and garden.....
The bees were suddenly spoiled for choice....
Everywhere I walk there is life. The warming soil and air has brought out that amazing community of worms and insects and lizards and birds that aerates our soils, pollinates our fruit and vegetables, and eats the aphids, bugs, and caterpillars that try to set up colonies on our favourite plants.
The magpies are dashing frantically to and from the heights of the tallest pine tree in the neighbourhood, ferrying a constant supply of worms, grubs, and donated mince to the demanding maws of this year's clutch of chicks.
The kookaburras are back, too - greeting the first rays of sunshine with their cheerful chorus, and patrolling the edges of our gardens, picking off the early skinks, while hoping for larger fare in the form of an snake or two.
Every season, in a place like this, has its pleasures and its wonders, but there is a lot to be said for the first few weeks of spring.
The wind arrived to blow the frost away, and our lake became a bonsai version of a storm-tossed ocean.
The snow, when it fell, settled mostly on the ranges beyond the Cox's River, and only a few flakes drifted across our gardens when the wind swung a little. Finally, the rain arrived.
The blossoms that had been latent were suddenly bright in bush and garden.....
The bees were suddenly spoiled for choice....
Everywhere I walk there is life. The warming soil and air has brought out that amazing community of worms and insects and lizards and birds that aerates our soils, pollinates our fruit and vegetables, and eats the aphids, bugs, and caterpillars that try to set up colonies on our favourite plants.
The magpies are dashing frantically to and from the heights of the tallest pine tree in the neighbourhood, ferrying a constant supply of worms, grubs, and donated mince to the demanding maws of this year's clutch of chicks.
The kookaburras are back, too - greeting the first rays of sunshine with their cheerful chorus, and patrolling the edges of our gardens, picking off the early skinks, while hoping for larger fare in the form of an snake or two.
Every season, in a place like this, has its pleasures and its wonders, but there is a lot to be said for the first few weeks of spring.
Sunday, 26 August 2018
Rainbows Made From Mud
Beyond the lawn that stretches from our back door, past our clothes line, around the corners of the orchard, there is a darker space. Keep walking and suddenly the warmth of the sun is gone from your shoulders. The shadows of the pines, casuarinas, hakeas and eucalypts are dense along the bank of the creek.
You can walk silently, your footfall absorbed by the deep carpet of fallen leaves and needles that is slowly darkening within those deep shadows, becoming one with the soil below. Where your boot soles bruise the rotting carpet, scents arise to tickle the nose - mold, terpenes, slime and mud all contribute to the bouquet. Stand quiet for a few minutes and the currents of life that stilled themselves at your intrusion will slowly resume their flow.
Insects will skitter, and skinks rustle among the leaves and fern-fronds. Perhaps a snake will rasp across the drying leaves in pursuit, the fear inspired by your presence overpowered by its need for prey. Wrens and finches will flit through the leaves, seeking a safe path between the serpent below the winged raptors above, and perhaps a pair of ducks will push ripples across the surface of the pool, startling the water insects, tadpoles, and minnows.
Stand still, breath slowly - more life will become obvious as you become less so. Lower your gaze and see the tiny scurryings among the blades of grass, as ants and spiders go about their business.
A place that seemed still and empty is revealed as a thriving market place of living and dying. Look closely, breath even more slowly - there is another level here, known more in the imagination than by any apparent movement.
Those fragments of plants and animals and fungi now fallen from their places are still busy - dying and decomposing and becoming part of the mud in and beside the creek. Mud that binds to and is bound by the roots of the trees and shrubs and ferns and rushes and grasses and violets that thrive on its richness. Below the mulch, the mud is alive, and is sharing its life with the fractal root-web of feeding plants.
Just there, by the bank - see the smooth grey-green and cream dappled bark of the eucalypt that dominates the head of this pool. Look inside it - see the miracle. Somehow that patient, motionless, trunk is busy pumping a vast flow of liquid towards the sky. From the sodden earth below, the sap carries microscopic fragments of that dark mud, lifting it twenty metres or more to the tiny, solar powered factories we call leaves.
Look up - you can see the undersides of the branches, twigs, and leaves - an airborne net to equal the complexity of the one below the surface. Yet there is something you cannot see from there. Back you go, back out into the sunlight, across the lawn, until you are further from the base of the tree than its topmost leaves are.
Look up again, see how the late afternoon sun is playing on the leaves - and something else. Tiny flecks of white among the green and orange growth - the tree is in blossom. The final destination of that miraculous flow of dissolved mud, brought all that way via root, trunk, branch, and twig, is that fragrant cluster of creamy reproductive complexity. In a few months, some of those flowers will have become gumnuts, holding within themselves seeds tiny enough to make acorns look clumsy.
But now, as the blossom basks in the sunlight, another miracle is taking place. Listen and look - living bells that chime and squawk and flutter and flash in shades of blue, green, yellow, orange and red - the rainbow lorikeets have arrived to feast on the nectar that is the penultimate product of that mighty trunk. The bees that have had only tiny honey eaters to compete with are now scattered by the chattering, swirling, feathered rainbow of lorikeets, and must circle hopefully, or yield, and return to their hive, and the leaves and petals that fell last year to become mud are once again airborne.
You can walk silently, your footfall absorbed by the deep carpet of fallen leaves and needles that is slowly darkening within those deep shadows, becoming one with the soil below. Where your boot soles bruise the rotting carpet, scents arise to tickle the nose - mold, terpenes, slime and mud all contribute to the bouquet. Stand quiet for a few minutes and the currents of life that stilled themselves at your intrusion will slowly resume their flow.
Insects will skitter, and skinks rustle among the leaves and fern-fronds. Perhaps a snake will rasp across the drying leaves in pursuit, the fear inspired by your presence overpowered by its need for prey. Wrens and finches will flit through the leaves, seeking a safe path between the serpent below the winged raptors above, and perhaps a pair of ducks will push ripples across the surface of the pool, startling the water insects, tadpoles, and minnows.
Stand still, breath slowly - more life will become obvious as you become less so. Lower your gaze and see the tiny scurryings among the blades of grass, as ants and spiders go about their business.
A place that seemed still and empty is revealed as a thriving market place of living and dying. Look closely, breath even more slowly - there is another level here, known more in the imagination than by any apparent movement.
Those fragments of plants and animals and fungi now fallen from their places are still busy - dying and decomposing and becoming part of the mud in and beside the creek. Mud that binds to and is bound by the roots of the trees and shrubs and ferns and rushes and grasses and violets that thrive on its richness. Below the mulch, the mud is alive, and is sharing its life with the fractal root-web of feeding plants.
Just there, by the bank - see the smooth grey-green and cream dappled bark of the eucalypt that dominates the head of this pool. Look inside it - see the miracle. Somehow that patient, motionless, trunk is busy pumping a vast flow of liquid towards the sky. From the sodden earth below, the sap carries microscopic fragments of that dark mud, lifting it twenty metres or more to the tiny, solar powered factories we call leaves.
Look up - you can see the undersides of the branches, twigs, and leaves - an airborne net to equal the complexity of the one below the surface. Yet there is something you cannot see from there. Back you go, back out into the sunlight, across the lawn, until you are further from the base of the tree than its topmost leaves are.
Look up again, see how the late afternoon sun is playing on the leaves - and something else. Tiny flecks of white among the green and orange growth - the tree is in blossom. The final destination of that miraculous flow of dissolved mud, brought all that way via root, trunk, branch, and twig, is that fragrant cluster of creamy reproductive complexity. In a few months, some of those flowers will have become gumnuts, holding within themselves seeds tiny enough to make acorns look clumsy.
But now, as the blossom basks in the sunlight, another miracle is taking place. Listen and look - living bells that chime and squawk and flutter and flash in shades of blue, green, yellow, orange and red - the rainbow lorikeets have arrived to feast on the nectar that is the penultimate product of that mighty trunk. The bees that have had only tiny honey eaters to compete with are now scattered by the chattering, swirling, feathered rainbow of lorikeets, and must circle hopefully, or yield, and return to their hive, and the leaves and petals that fell last year to become mud are once again airborne.
Thursday, 12 July 2018
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.
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.
Tuesday, 24 April 2018
The Early Bird
As the season cools towards winter, the flow of life in and out of my gardens is changing, too. The longer nights are generally quieter - lacking the shrilling of crickets and percussion ensemble of the various frogs along the creek and in the swamp. Around midnight there is usually at least one burst of possum snarling, as territory is claimed and reclaimed, but, after the boundaries are sorted, silence returns.
Have they nothing to say, or are they anticipating the increasing hunger of roaming foxes? - always busier, it seems, in the colder weather. Perhaps it is the foxes, too, that postpone the dawn chorus of small birds - finches, wrens, and silvereyes - until the first rays of sunshine reach in among the branches and make the world just that bit safer for the smallest denizens.
The first sign of bird life is generally the chorus of kookaburras, telling the rest of us that the eastern sky is changing from black to grey. The magpies and currawongs are usually next, renewing their claim to lookout tree, nesting place, and grassy hunting grounds. When they call, you know the sun is not far below the horizon.
Once the early, yellow light has banished the nocturnal predators - fox, cat and owl - to their diurnal shelters, the tiny birds give voice from within the tangle of twigs and thorns. The satin birds begin to sortie out of the denser foilage, seeking berry and fruit, and the crimson rosellas appear to brighten the world.
This is a time when the shadows are long enough to give ample hiding places to the hunted, and the sky is bright enough to silhouette the early hawks and falcons.
In that still, cool, perfect early light, two crimson rosellas - brilliant red and blue - jinked and swerved through to trees to check out the feeder in the small oak tree. Often loud and tuneful, they swooped in silence, and checked out their destination from the safety of the neighbouring liquidambar. Their reflexive caution made me wonder if the cat from two doors up has again been conducting dawn patrols through the adjacent camellias.
Reconnaissance completed, they fluttered down into the feeder bowl and broke their fast, all the while conducting a softly muttered conversation. The soft chirps and whistles didn't stop as I walked by on my way to the village - they know the humans who belong here, as do the magpies, and king parrots, and the cuckoo doves who spend part of each year here. If they are gone when I return from the shops, the magpies will be waiting on the veranda rail for me, hoping for a treat, and the black ducks will be grazing across the lawn above the creek, where the fractal edge of tree-shadow gives them a sense of safety. It would be a poor world without them.
As the day warms and the shadows tuck themselves in closer to the tree trunks, the birds seem to retreat as well, but the shadows will reach out again as the air cools, and the tide of life will flow again across the garden.
Have they nothing to say, or are they anticipating the increasing hunger of roaming foxes? - always busier, it seems, in the colder weather. Perhaps it is the foxes, too, that postpone the dawn chorus of small birds - finches, wrens, and silvereyes - until the first rays of sunshine reach in among the branches and make the world just that bit safer for the smallest denizens.
The first sign of bird life is generally the chorus of kookaburras, telling the rest of us that the eastern sky is changing from black to grey. The magpies and currawongs are usually next, renewing their claim to lookout tree, nesting place, and grassy hunting grounds. When they call, you know the sun is not far below the horizon.
Once the early, yellow light has banished the nocturnal predators - fox, cat and owl - to their diurnal shelters, the tiny birds give voice from within the tangle of twigs and thorns. The satin birds begin to sortie out of the denser foilage, seeking berry and fruit, and the crimson rosellas appear to brighten the world.
This is a time when the shadows are long enough to give ample hiding places to the hunted, and the sky is bright enough to silhouette the early hawks and falcons.
In that still, cool, perfect early light, two crimson rosellas - brilliant red and blue - jinked and swerved through to trees to check out the feeder in the small oak tree. Often loud and tuneful, they swooped in silence, and checked out their destination from the safety of the neighbouring liquidambar. Their reflexive caution made me wonder if the cat from two doors up has again been conducting dawn patrols through the adjacent camellias.
Reconnaissance completed, they fluttered down into the feeder bowl and broke their fast, all the while conducting a softly muttered conversation. The soft chirps and whistles didn't stop as I walked by on my way to the village - they know the humans who belong here, as do the magpies, and king parrots, and the cuckoo doves who spend part of each year here. If they are gone when I return from the shops, the magpies will be waiting on the veranda rail for me, hoping for a treat, and the black ducks will be grazing across the lawn above the creek, where the fractal edge of tree-shadow gives them a sense of safety. It would be a poor world without them.
As the day warms and the shadows tuck themselves in closer to the tree trunks, the birds seem to retreat as well, but the shadows will reach out again as the air cools, and the tide of life will flow again across the garden.
Sunday, 21 January 2018
When the Landlords Come Calling
Along with Drop Bears, deadly spiders, poisonous snakes, and sharks that queue up for their turn to eat surfers, one of the most internationally known and feared denizens of the plethora of lethal Aussie wildlife is the magpie. Aussies as well as tourists are brought up on a diet of stories that paint magpies, like snakes, as aggressive beasts that are waiting for any opportunity to attack.
Take my own example, in the picture below, of what can happen if the hapless Aussie homeowner makes the mistake of leaving the screen door open for even a few seconds......
Well, in truth, it is an instance of just how intelligent these birds are. Though they try very hard to seem fearsome when defending their nestlings for a few months each year (and yes, injuries have happened, eyes damaged, blood drawn) for the most part they are, if spoken to the right way, friendly, happy birds who get along well with humans - albeit on their own terms. They had seen me outside, had spoken to me, and I had spoken back. When I came inside to find some food for them, they followed. When I pointed out the door and told them to go outside, they did. Do they speak English? I doubt it - but they seem to read intent from tone of voice, body language, and gesture, just as cats and dogs seem to do.
As for ferocity - I have seen them chased off the veranda rail by a brown cuckoo dove who felt he had more right to be there, and have watched them playing tag with toddler grandchildren. The magpies in the picture are part of a family that we refer to as our landlords. Our house is one of several within their territory.
They regularly fly down to our front door and sing to us until offered a little bit of minced meat - our rent, so to speak. From their vantage point at the kitchen window they can see where the mince is kept - in the refrigerator - and as soon as we go to the frig to get it out, they become excited, and shift their position to the front door. If we are too slow to respond, they will fly to other windows, looking in, and sometimes gently tapping on the glass.
Magpies can remember individual human faces for years, and will learn new songs from humans who still retain the skill of whistling. I have found them, during the warmer parts of the day, sitting in a shady spot, practicing not only their regular, beautiful carolling, but also the songs of other birds from around the neighbourhood.
As well as the magpies, there are doves, rosellas, wattle birds, kookaburras, butcher birds, currawongs, king parrots, honey-eaters, ducks, and a swirl of other little birds, that all come, at some time or another, to sit on our veranda rail, or fossick through our gardens in pursuit of sustenance and shelter.
They are not pets - we don't own them. If anything, they own us - a part of us, at least, that would be less without their company. They seem to grow used to our presence, and to be able to identify our normal patterns of behaviour. The magpies, for example, long ago learned to follow me into the garden if I am carrying a fork or hoe. They will stand only inches away from my boots, waiting to pounce on any worm or grub that my digging turns up.
The king parrots are another remarkable bird, and I suspect they have a memory and intelligence every bit as good as that of the magpies. They, too, address their communications directly to whichever of us is present - looking us in the eye and using particular whistles and calls.
It is a source of great pleasure and joy to have the company of these creatures. They come and go according to their own schedules and priorities, but they seem to know us as having our own place withing their territories. We seem to have been classified as fellow inhabitants of the natural space they dwell in, instead of being regarded as predators.
Take my own example, in the picture below, of what can happen if the hapless Aussie homeowner makes the mistake of leaving the screen door open for even a few seconds......
Well, in truth, it is an instance of just how intelligent these birds are. Though they try very hard to seem fearsome when defending their nestlings for a few months each year (and yes, injuries have happened, eyes damaged, blood drawn) for the most part they are, if spoken to the right way, friendly, happy birds who get along well with humans - albeit on their own terms. They had seen me outside, had spoken to me, and I had spoken back. When I came inside to find some food for them, they followed. When I pointed out the door and told them to go outside, they did. Do they speak English? I doubt it - but they seem to read intent from tone of voice, body language, and gesture, just as cats and dogs seem to do.
As for ferocity - I have seen them chased off the veranda rail by a brown cuckoo dove who felt he had more right to be there, and have watched them playing tag with toddler grandchildren. The magpies in the picture are part of a family that we refer to as our landlords. Our house is one of several within their territory.
They regularly fly down to our front door and sing to us until offered a little bit of minced meat - our rent, so to speak. From their vantage point at the kitchen window they can see where the mince is kept - in the refrigerator - and as soon as we go to the frig to get it out, they become excited, and shift their position to the front door. If we are too slow to respond, they will fly to other windows, looking in, and sometimes gently tapping on the glass.
Magpies can remember individual human faces for years, and will learn new songs from humans who still retain the skill of whistling. I have found them, during the warmer parts of the day, sitting in a shady spot, practicing not only their regular, beautiful carolling, but also the songs of other birds from around the neighbourhood.
As well as the magpies, there are doves, rosellas, wattle birds, kookaburras, butcher birds, currawongs, king parrots, honey-eaters, ducks, and a swirl of other little birds, that all come, at some time or another, to sit on our veranda rail, or fossick through our gardens in pursuit of sustenance and shelter.
They are not pets - we don't own them. If anything, they own us - a part of us, at least, that would be less without their company. They seem to grow used to our presence, and to be able to identify our normal patterns of behaviour. The magpies, for example, long ago learned to follow me into the garden if I am carrying a fork or hoe. They will stand only inches away from my boots, waiting to pounce on any worm or grub that my digging turns up.
The king parrots are another remarkable bird, and I suspect they have a memory and intelligence every bit as good as that of the magpies. They, too, address their communications directly to whichever of us is present - looking us in the eye and using particular whistles and calls.
It is a source of great pleasure and joy to have the company of these creatures. They come and go according to their own schedules and priorities, but they seem to know us as having our own place withing their territories. We seem to have been classified as fellow inhabitants of the natural space they dwell in, instead of being regarded as predators.
Friday, 19 January 2018
What's all the Crying About?
Mid Summer - The gardens are flourishing, though the pumpkin vines are running riot in every direction, threatening to overwhelm the more genteel vegetables.
Some are even threatening to rise up and strangle the apple trees. I like pumpkins in the winter, and I like apples in the autumn - some hard choices and selective pruning will soon be in order. But that's not what I came here to talk about today. It's not the sights in and around my garden that have me wondering, but the sounds.
From dawn till dusk, there are two juvenile channel-billed cuckoos out there - sometimes in the trees beyond the creek, sometimes in a tree outside my bedroom window - begging, whinging, and generally harassing the poor unfortunate currawong who found herself saddled with them this year. At times it can sound so like the cry of a human baby that I have to go looking through the garden to be sure it is only the bird.
Normally this currawong raises one chick of her own and keeps it close and hidden in the trees along the creek, but something went wrong this year. The koels had been circling the tree that the magpies had nested in, and, after much conflict and many alarms, the magpies seem to have abandoned the idea of child-raising this year. Perhaps she was busy watching the fuss on the other side of the railway line and didn't notice the cuckoo intruder on her side.
But the noise, what a cacaphony! It brings me to something I have wondered about before, but never had so many instances of it to compare as I have now. There is a tone to the pleadings of the juvenile cuckoos, as well as that of juvenile currawongs, magpies, puppies, kittens, lambs, and humans, that is so similar, though it issues from such dissimilar creatures. Few of us can resist responding to the desperate, disturbing cries of a baby, and not just human babies, but so many other babies of the animal world, who use a similar sound to express their distress, and to call for help. There are many instance recorded in various ways of cross species mothering, as canines care for baby felines, cats for puppies, and so on.
Our mother currawong, for example, brings food to the begging cuckoo, but hesitates each time, until the cries from the young bird become absolutely frantic. With her own chicks, the food is offered instantly - she knows there is something wrong about this one, but has raised this creature from a little ball of downy fluff, and cannot resist the impassioned and desperate pleading. Our Magpie landlords are not impressed, and if she brings them near the house, they are quick to sound the alarm, and swoop in to drive them away.
Earlier, as I walked through the village, having bought milk and bread for the grandchildren I knew would be visiting a bit later in the day, I found myself instinctively turning around everytime some child yelled "grandma" or "grandpa" - it happened several times, as Wentworth Falls and its cafes attracts many families during the school holidays. Most of us seem to be affected by it, as I saw other heads turning, too.
There have been papers and articles aplenty over the years looking at the topic, for example, this one here As the wonderful Professor Sumner-Miller used to so often say, all those year ago "Why is it so?" There was an excellent story teller - eccentric, and at times erratic, but we knew that he would take us to interesting conclusions, so we were happy to sit through those moments in return for the drama in the middle, and the interesting conclusions.
Having trouble telling your own story? So was I, this morning - the temperature outside, and in, is soaring beyond any reasonable level for the Mountains, and I am weary from too much furniture moving and driving (an adult child on the move) but, as usual, once the words begin to flow, I remember the joy that comes at the finish of each creative effort. The effort of working is never as bad as the pain of anticipating the work - though I have to admit that if the weather were cooler, I would have found it much harder to abandon the garden for the keyboard.
Some are even threatening to rise up and strangle the apple trees. I like pumpkins in the winter, and I like apples in the autumn - some hard choices and selective pruning will soon be in order. But that's not what I came here to talk about today. It's not the sights in and around my garden that have me wondering, but the sounds.
From dawn till dusk, there are two juvenile channel-billed cuckoos out there - sometimes in the trees beyond the creek, sometimes in a tree outside my bedroom window - begging, whinging, and generally harassing the poor unfortunate currawong who found herself saddled with them this year. At times it can sound so like the cry of a human baby that I have to go looking through the garden to be sure it is only the bird.
Normally this currawong raises one chick of her own and keeps it close and hidden in the trees along the creek, but something went wrong this year. The koels had been circling the tree that the magpies had nested in, and, after much conflict and many alarms, the magpies seem to have abandoned the idea of child-raising this year. Perhaps she was busy watching the fuss on the other side of the railway line and didn't notice the cuckoo intruder on her side.
But the noise, what a cacaphony! It brings me to something I have wondered about before, but never had so many instances of it to compare as I have now. There is a tone to the pleadings of the juvenile cuckoos, as well as that of juvenile currawongs, magpies, puppies, kittens, lambs, and humans, that is so similar, though it issues from such dissimilar creatures. Few of us can resist responding to the desperate, disturbing cries of a baby, and not just human babies, but so many other babies of the animal world, who use a similar sound to express their distress, and to call for help. There are many instance recorded in various ways of cross species mothering, as canines care for baby felines, cats for puppies, and so on.
Our mother currawong, for example, brings food to the begging cuckoo, but hesitates each time, until the cries from the young bird become absolutely frantic. With her own chicks, the food is offered instantly - she knows there is something wrong about this one, but has raised this creature from a little ball of downy fluff, and cannot resist the impassioned and desperate pleading. Our Magpie landlords are not impressed, and if she brings them near the house, they are quick to sound the alarm, and swoop in to drive them away.
Earlier, as I walked through the village, having bought milk and bread for the grandchildren I knew would be visiting a bit later in the day, I found myself instinctively turning around everytime some child yelled "grandma" or "grandpa" - it happened several times, as Wentworth Falls and its cafes attracts many families during the school holidays. Most of us seem to be affected by it, as I saw other heads turning, too.
There have been papers and articles aplenty over the years looking at the topic, for example, this one here As the wonderful Professor Sumner-Miller used to so often say, all those year ago "Why is it so?" There was an excellent story teller - eccentric, and at times erratic, but we knew that he would take us to interesting conclusions, so we were happy to sit through those moments in return for the drama in the middle, and the interesting conclusions.
Having trouble telling your own story? So was I, this morning - the temperature outside, and in, is soaring beyond any reasonable level for the Mountains, and I am weary from too much furniture moving and driving (an adult child on the move) but, as usual, once the words begin to flow, I remember the joy that comes at the finish of each creative effort. The effort of working is never as bad as the pain of anticipating the work - though I have to admit that if the weather were cooler, I would have found it much harder to abandon the garden for the keyboard.
Tuesday, 5 December 2017
Cherax - Destructor, or Constructor?
Cherax Destructor - the common yabby of farm dams and creeks across a vast swathe of Australia, has made a home for itself in all sorts of odd places. It is not a native of the upper Blue Mountains, but has been here for quite a while. The grandkids and I have caught them on many occasions in Jamison Creek, beside the orchard, or in the Wentworth Falls Lake. Recently I found a number of small specimens inside the stomach of a Redfin Perch caught in the lake, and I am sure they are one of the reasons that the cormorants hang around the lake, as well.
It surprised me though, when I found it lurking in a tiny little rill that runs down the back of our place. I had seen an adult in there a while back, over 50 metres up from the main creek, and wondered if it was lost - and then the holes appeared in the banks of that miniature creek.
The debris from the excavation ended up strewn across the stream, just downstream. Heavy rain washed leaves into the pool that had formed, and when I cleared the blockage, yabbies only a few centimetres long scurried back into the hole. Within a day or two, the stream was blocked by another wall of sand and gravel.
I cleared it again, and again, and each time it was back within a night or two (cherax are prey to kookaburras, currawongs, foxes, and who knows what else - darkness is their friend) and each rebuild was bigger and better than the last. It took me a while to understand that this was no random construction - all the material excavated from the tunnel was neatly piled across the stream, forming a small lake around the tunnel entry. Not only that, but the water in the little pool above the dam was running through the tunnel and re-entering the stream about 750 mm downstream. Perfect for a female yabby nurturing eggs or babies.
At the beginning and end of the above video I focus on the point at which the water flows out of the downstream end of the tunnel and back into the stream. I have never seen a yabby do anything like this before, and wonder if anyone else has seen such behaviour.
It surprised me though, when I found it lurking in a tiny little rill that runs down the back of our place. I had seen an adult in there a while back, over 50 metres up from the main creek, and wondered if it was lost - and then the holes appeared in the banks of that miniature creek.
The first hole - angled down into the left hand bank of the stream, beneath the long blades of grass.
The debris from the excavation ended up strewn across the stream, just downstream. Heavy rain washed leaves into the pool that had formed, and when I cleared the blockage, yabbies only a few centimetres long scurried back into the hole. Within a day or two, the stream was blocked by another wall of sand and gravel.
Mixed in with the sand and mud was gravel up to 40mm in diameter - not bad work for a little creature that is often only 100 - 200 mm long itself
I cleared it again, and again, and each time it was back within a night or two (cherax are prey to kookaburras, currawongs, foxes, and who knows what else - darkness is their friend) and each rebuild was bigger and better than the last. It took me a while to understand that this was no random construction - all the material excavated from the tunnel was neatly piled across the stream, forming a small lake around the tunnel entry. Not only that, but the water in the little pool above the dam was running through the tunnel and re-entering the stream about 750 mm downstream. Perfect for a female yabby nurturing eggs or babies.
At the beginning and end of the above video I focus on the point at which the water flows out of the downstream end of the tunnel and back into the stream. I have never seen a yabby do anything like this before, and wonder if anyone else has seen such behaviour.
Saturday, 14 October 2017
Village Life
Do I live in a village or a town?
I once lived in a village that had so few houses that it would barely have deserved the title hamlet, but for the church, school, fire brigade shed, and the trading post/wine bar/fuel stop/stockfeed store that formed its centre.
Now I live in a town that most of its residents refer to as a village. Wishful thinking? Or perhaps the locals are applying the designation of village merely to the commercial core, with its little row of shops facing the railway line and highway in a straggly "L" shape?
My Geography teacher, so many years ago, would probably have called it a large town, and been adjudged correct by authorities. Perhaps it is a medium sized town with a number of village areas comprised variously of the shops and the older residential precincts close by, with another couple of older villages along the creek and ridge lines that lead to the grand feature of the district - Wentworth Falls - plus those late arrivals that have pushed outwards beyond easy walking distance of the railway station, along rocky ridges, through twisted gums and native scrub, to the heights that offer a panorama of The City on The Plain.
It feels like village life, though, as I work in my garden and accept compliments on its behalf from passers by, discuss the weather, give directions to tourists seeking the lake or the falls, or exchange news with a passing fisherman.
It feels like a village when you can greet storekeepers by name each day, and be named in turn by the quiet tide of patrons that flow in and out of the library each day that it is open. It feels even more like a village when particular Magpies, King Parrots, and Cockatoos come to talk to you when you are sitting on the veranda or working in the garden, and you can greet passing dogs by name.
So how big is a village, really, and why don't we all live in one? It feels a better place to be than the anonymous stacks of brittle concrete and flammable foam our developers and politicians seem determined to foist on most of the population.
I once lived in a village that had so few houses that it would barely have deserved the title hamlet, but for the church, school, fire brigade shed, and the trading post/wine bar/fuel stop/stockfeed store that formed its centre.
It is said that there has been some sort of inn or bar on this site (legally or otherwise) since 1837
Now I live in a town that most of its residents refer to as a village. Wishful thinking? Or perhaps the locals are applying the designation of village merely to the commercial core, with its little row of shops facing the railway line and highway in a straggly "L" shape?
My Geography teacher, so many years ago, would probably have called it a large town, and been adjudged correct by authorities. Perhaps it is a medium sized town with a number of village areas comprised variously of the shops and the older residential precincts close by, with another couple of older villages along the creek and ridge lines that lead to the grand feature of the district - Wentworth Falls - plus those late arrivals that have pushed outwards beyond easy walking distance of the railway station, along rocky ridges, through twisted gums and native scrub, to the heights that offer a panorama of The City on The Plain.
It feels like village life, though, as I work in my garden and accept compliments on its behalf from passers by, discuss the weather, give directions to tourists seeking the lake or the falls, or exchange news with a passing fisherman.
It feels like a village when you can greet storekeepers by name each day, and be named in turn by the quiet tide of patrons that flow in and out of the library each day that it is open. It feels even more like a village when particular Magpies, King Parrots, and Cockatoos come to talk to you when you are sitting on the veranda or working in the garden, and you can greet passing dogs by name.
So how big is a village, really, and why don't we all live in one? It feels a better place to be than the anonymous stacks of brittle concrete and flammable foam our developers and politicians seem determined to foist on most of the population.
Saturday, 29 April 2017
As Seasons Fleet
Though the autumn colours are still bright in our gardens and along the hillside across the valley, already nature is preparing for spring.
The wattle may still be three or four months from flowering, but the delicate buds are already reaching out to brighten the coming dullness of winter. Not far away, the pine is readying itself for the return of warmth and light, as the tightly coiled embryos of the next summer's growth prepare to explode.
Our landlords, the resident Magpies, are still minding the last of the youngsters they hatched out in previous seasons, even though it can fend for itself quite well if they are not present to meet its demands. Yet they are also vigorously guarding their nesting tree against future need. In the lake, and the stream that runs down from it, the Perch are fat with roe - and, though we are yet to feel winter's blast, already all the signs of the coming spring and summer are visible to anyone who walks slowly through our valley and over our mountain.
Yet things are not quite as they should be - one sign of spring in my part of the mountains is the golden dusting of pollen, from the Radiata Pines, that drifts down into the cracks in the footpaths, and filters the light coming through any windscreen left in the open. It is autumn, but our Pinus gold dust is present again, if in smaller quantities than the spring flowering produces. The Elderberry has flowered again, too, and the Jonquills are appearing around the garden.
The seasons in Australia are never quite as predictable as they are in many parts of the world, but I am not sure what to make of this. I can watch this ebb and flow of seasonal life, and work it into the stories I tell - to myself and to the world. Time will tell how pertinent those stories are.
The wattle may still be three or four months from flowering, but the delicate buds are already reaching out to brighten the coming dullness of winter. Not far away, the pine is readying itself for the return of warmth and light, as the tightly coiled embryos of the next summer's growth prepare to explode.
Our landlords, the resident Magpies, are still minding the last of the youngsters they hatched out in previous seasons, even though it can fend for itself quite well if they are not present to meet its demands. Yet they are also vigorously guarding their nesting tree against future need. In the lake, and the stream that runs down from it, the Perch are fat with roe - and, though we are yet to feel winter's blast, already all the signs of the coming spring and summer are visible to anyone who walks slowly through our valley and over our mountain.
Yet things are not quite as they should be - one sign of spring in my part of the mountains is the golden dusting of pollen, from the Radiata Pines, that drifts down into the cracks in the footpaths, and filters the light coming through any windscreen left in the open. It is autumn, but our Pinus gold dust is present again, if in smaller quantities than the spring flowering produces. The Elderberry has flowered again, too, and the Jonquills are appearing around the garden.
The seasons in Australia are never quite as predictable as they are in many parts of the world, but I am not sure what to make of this. I can watch this ebb and flow of seasonal life, and work it into the stories I tell - to myself and to the world. Time will tell how pertinent those stories are.
Thursday, 20 April 2017
Something new in the garden.
For a couple of days over the Easter weekend my back gardens were noisy and busy with grandchildren, climbing trees, hunting yabbies, chasing butterflies, and generally having all the fun that children have when given time and space, and freedom to use both as they wish. At some point the noise changed - a rhythmic tapping joined the more chaotic background noise of children enjoying a large lawn on a sunny day.
Somehow the ten year old - the oldest child present on that weekend - had dragged a small pallet up into the willow tree by the poultry run, and had begun securing it in a space between four large branches. She had made a ramp out of spare planks to help her get the pallet into the fork, her grandmother had raided my workbench for a hammer and nails, and construction of a tree house had begun.
A few months earlier, it had been a tipi by the creek, using fallen branches and prunings gathered from various corners of the gardens. I am always intrigued by the things the children will do, make, and build, when they are left to their own devices - even the most screen-fascinated cousin could not resist the siren call of other children enjoying the outdoors. One child with a good idea will quickly attract a crowd of helpers and collaborators.
Before the tree house, there had been chalk art on the deck, and a group effort gathering firewood for Grandma's campfire - though there was an ulterior motive in that, as they know Grandma usually has a packet of marshmallows tucked away somewhere in the pantry.
When the children have gone back to their respective homes, the garden can seem quiet - but never for long. Stand still and listen - myriad small, piping voices and fluttering wings tell of the arrival of an uncountable flock of Silvereyes (Zosterops Lateralis), pausing for refreshments in my garden as they migrate north for the winter.
They are uncountable simply because they are never still for more than a second or two as they flit and whirl from fisssured bark, to twig, to branch, searching under every leaf for the tiny morsels - aphids, scale insects, ants, tiny grubs, moths - that they need to fuel their journey. How something so tiny can travel so far is truly a wonder - and in spring they will pass through on their way back to their nesting places. For a while, the flock descended on my cabbages, and it was wonderful to behold the way each bird searched the top and bottom of every cabbage leaf, delicately cleaning it of all pests. Then, with a sudden outcry, they fled into the trees along the creek, as a pair of screeching cockatoos raced overhead.
Soon, it will be red-browed finches flocking through the gardens, and when they are gone, the fairy wrens will have the place almost to themselves again, as the first frost and snow descends to change the season. Not long after that, the magpies and currawongs will be gathering grass and twigs for spring nesting. Even now, before winter has arrived, the satin bower bird can be heard rehearsing his repertoire as he begins to stake out a territory against the return of warmer weather.
Somehow the ten year old - the oldest child present on that weekend - had dragged a small pallet up into the willow tree by the poultry run, and had begun securing it in a space between four large branches. She had made a ramp out of spare planks to help her get the pallet into the fork, her grandmother had raided my workbench for a hammer and nails, and construction of a tree house had begun.
A few months earlier, it had been a tipi by the creek, using fallen branches and prunings gathered from various corners of the gardens. I am always intrigued by the things the children will do, make, and build, when they are left to their own devices - even the most screen-fascinated cousin could not resist the siren call of other children enjoying the outdoors. One child with a good idea will quickly attract a crowd of helpers and collaborators.
Before the tree house, there had been chalk art on the deck, and a group effort gathering firewood for Grandma's campfire - though there was an ulterior motive in that, as they know Grandma usually has a packet of marshmallows tucked away somewhere in the pantry.
When the children have gone back to their respective homes, the garden can seem quiet - but never for long. Stand still and listen - myriad small, piping voices and fluttering wings tell of the arrival of an uncountable flock of Silvereyes (Zosterops Lateralis), pausing for refreshments in my garden as they migrate north for the winter.
They are uncountable simply because they are never still for more than a second or two as they flit and whirl from fisssured bark, to twig, to branch, searching under every leaf for the tiny morsels - aphids, scale insects, ants, tiny grubs, moths - that they need to fuel their journey. How something so tiny can travel so far is truly a wonder - and in spring they will pass through on their way back to their nesting places. For a while, the flock descended on my cabbages, and it was wonderful to behold the way each bird searched the top and bottom of every cabbage leaf, delicately cleaning it of all pests. Then, with a sudden outcry, they fled into the trees along the creek, as a pair of screeching cockatoos raced overhead.
Soon, it will be red-browed finches flocking through the gardens, and when they are gone, the fairy wrens will have the place almost to themselves again, as the first frost and snow descends to change the season. Not long after that, the magpies and currawongs will be gathering grass and twigs for spring nesting. Even now, before winter has arrived, the satin bower bird can be heard rehearsing his repertoire as he begins to stake out a territory against the return of warmer weather.
Tuesday, 11 April 2017
Distractions
Distractions are all about me as I write. The leaves are fading and falling from the fruit trees beyond my study window, allowing me to glimpse the smear of autumn colour on the Japanese Maples on the other side of my little valley. A few minutes ago the biggest of them was glowing red and orange against the white boards of the house behind it, and the dark green of pines and eucalypts beyond.
Excited, shrill piping drew me to the other window to find a flock of silver-eyes celebrating the food they were finding in the vegetable gardens. Watching them carefully inspect the underside of each cabbage leaf in search of caterpillars and aphids made me wish they would live there full time - but, like all the life in the Mountains, including mine, they are seasonal. Tiny nomads on an endless round, the silver-eyes, robins, and finches, with their larger cousins, the doves and quail, all pass through my gardens twice a year.
A magpie's fleeting shadow sent them scurrying to hide among the thorns of the rose bush by the front steps. Magpie is harmless to them, I think - perhaps they mistook the flash of black and white for her cousin, the butcher bird. After a few minutes pillaging the aphids on the rose shoots, they were off with the rising breeze.
They wouldn't sit still for my camera, and I could only capture what may be the last rose of autumn, fading as wintry clouds stole the blue from the sky.
Within minutes of the sun's disappearance, the picknickers come down the road from the lake, striding towards warmth and shelter. The visitors and tourists are dressed for the warm autumn day that was, while the locals are equipped with scarves, mittens, beanies and coats - they know how swiftly capricious the Mountains weather can be. Weaving through the walkers are the first of the evening joggers and cyclists, hurrying to complete their appointed miles before the threat of rain is fullfilled. The chilly gusts and prematurely fading light adds weight to that threat.
When the sunlight left, so did the small birds. If I leave my keyboard and walk through the garden to the forest, or perhaps down to the creek, will I find them there? Or are they deeper in the shadows, hiding from the hawks and butcher birds who like to cruise the valley as the light fades? It is tempting - but I have been there twice already today, when the sun was shining, and I owe my novel-to-be at least another half a chapter before I can leave the keyboard again. There are shadows enough to be explored there, as I hunt for the truth about my characters.
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