On year 9 camp, a kookaburra stole my sandwich on an overnight hike. I’d hiked a long way and was really looking forward to that sandwich. It took me years to forgive the species.
Clever builder, Petit Oiseau.
When I think about it, I’ve always liked birds. But I didn’t realise how much I liked birds until recently.
When I moved to Queensland I was introduced to a range of birds who were different to back home and I wanted to know who they were. I asked Mum and Dad to send me the What Bird Is That? book we used to identify the birds back home, and they sent it along with two others; one of which belonged to Grandma.
She had made field notes in the margins of the birds she had seen over the decades at home and on holidays. I added my name to the inside page and started adding locations and dates next to the birds I found.
Red-tailed black cockatoos look like Elvis.
When I was in grade 1, our cat died. Dad declared there was to be no more cats because he loved the birds in the garden too much and having a cat scared them away.
I now understand his sentiment entirely. We have a giant backyard that’s home to many native birds, visiting us at different times of the year as the seasons change. I wouldn’t want to threaten them with a cat.
The Whistles.
Rainbow lorikeets are pretty. But they’re kind of smug about it. And eat the mangoes off our tree. Rude.
Last month we had a beautiful olive-backed sunbird building a nest under our veranda. We marvelled at the intricacies of the nest and would say “good morning, Petit Oiseau” as we drank our morning coffee.
Sadly, we haven’t seen her in weeks.
We love our feathered visitors. Yes, even the sulfur-crested cockatoos who loudly throw things on our roof, and the white ibis who steal the ducks’ food.
But maybe not the tawny frogmouth who was eyeing off the sunbird’s nest. That’s just rude and un-neighbourly. (I’m sure the tawny frogmouth would say we’re rude for calling her Fausse Chouette. But I don’t care.)
The Whistles are a flock of plumed whistling ducks who visit us every year. They announce their arrival and departure with their signature whistle.
I enthusiastically participated in this year’s Aussie Bird Count but my enthusiasm was short-lived as I spent more time hopelessly looking in field guides than I did looking for birds. At one point, I looked up from a futile identification attempt of a medium-sized brown bird to find a kookaburra smugly staring at me from the grass.
Bloody kookaburras.
Rude.
Bush turkeys are hilarious. End of.
Australia has beautiful birds but there are more to why I like birds than just their looks.
Magpies might be evil with wings (or is that emus?) but they sing beautifully, and lyrebirds are worthy of more recognition with their outstanding vocal skills.
I appreciate the adaptability of the Australian white ibis. I’ve been entertained by the cunning of a pair of currawongs playing with a cat.
And curlews make me laugh because, really, trying to freeze and camouflage with the footpath isn’t fooling anyone.
Like many Australians, I’ve had a magpie draw blood.
How will I vote in #BirdOfTheYear? I don’t know.
But I’m not voting for a kookaburra because I haven’t forgiven them enough.
Bethany Keats: Poet Lorikeet. 