bulabul ants
Mum says they move faster when it’s going to
rain. So for me they’re wound up with that
beautiful word petrichor. But of course ants have
their very own smell.
If the earth looks loose, shifting, almost in
motion, you can be sure it’s their battleground.
They’re always there, but seem to be more
noticeable in the summer. That’s when they break
in to find treasures in the house. A nuisance for us.
Goldmine for them.
They will carry almost anything, it looks like. The
other day I noticed one marching past carrying
half a bee. Its body. Stamen?
guru magpie
It’s not quiet here. Constant echo of calls between
trees. Bouncing around different heights and
positions.
What on earth could they be going on about?
Perhaps that rain is on the way.
As you can see, ink is starting to run on the page.
djubi-djubi small bird
There are many prize feathers to collect. I
have just added a blue wren’s to my collection.
The others: robin red-breast, cockatoo, galah,
kookaburra.
Nature gave males splendid coloured suits, yet
females dress down.
One flew inside the other day and couldn’t get
out. This isn’t your house, we said, let us show
you the way. We coaxed the brown bird from the
sewing room.
Thrilled, I thought I might have to clasp her in
my hands. But the frightened wren nearly flew
into the mirror, coming face to face with the end.
Lucky she realised just in time.
We opened the kitchen window, removed the fly
wire and she escaped. Was gone.
I had so wanted to hold that little bird.
djinab cockatoo
Screeching, it tears the sky apart. A massive rip
ricocheting through the blue, clouds hiding
a seam (instinct to write ‘to the heavens’ but
actually) to beyond. Clouds hiding a seam.
These white feathers are strong. Viscous. A prize
to find one unattached to a bird. For a headdress,
or a crown. To crown.
I heard there are cockatoos who live a very long
time. Up to 50 years in captivity. How much
more, or less, I wonder, in the wild. That’s just
the white ones. Black ones are rarer here. But I’ve
made sure they’re with me always, inked in my
skin.
gauir emu
Triangle footprints in the sandy paddock. Three
toes in the dirt road. But its tracks are also in the
sky. Emu is mythological for a couple reasons.
One’s a long ago memory, tightly held. Of going
on drives with dad out on different jobs. At the
neighbour’s property over near the reservoir, foot
of the fire tower. Emerging into a clearing we
found emu eggs. Did he know to find nests there
(who would I ask)? The massive yolks slid out of
navy blue shell.
More, other different egg times after he’d died.
Before the adults could blow the yolks to
make trophies, we snatched them to smash
underneath the trampoline. The trampoline was
simultaneously a prop, the stage, the star. All our
performances took place there.
But first, the smashing.
We would upend it so the long edge was on the
grass. Get a good run up, jump and cling on,
falling backwards as it righted itself again. The
elastic part always looked terrifying on the run
up but relented in the come down, springy and
forgiving. The bars, however, could be vicious,
which we knew from our egg exploits. Hands
and feet had to be well clear of them, just like
from the coils themselves. They’d give you a nasty
pinch if you weren’t careful.
Through this routine many eggs met their end.
Or it may have just been once and relived many
times.
Other performances were staged on the
trampoline. Its shiny black surface allowed
slipping and sliding, while the rounded corners
were perfect wings, just like in the real theatre. All
these aspects were deployed in our major hit: The
Emu Crossed the Road.
I’d be a lesser woman if I pretended I didn’t
remember how it went. It was a highly physical
number.
mindjun grey kangaroo
They move slowly and carefully. Lolloping along.
Then, they move very very fast. Could have been
a person hiding in the trees. A quick getaway.
On this land I always imagine it’s a person with
a secret. Hiding some family knowledge. Hiding
my father, as if death hadn’t actually disappeared
him off this earth.
An old grey fella visits us most nights. Comes
very close to the house. Watching, moving slowly,
and bolting if we come outside.
I walk through paddocks looking for any sign
of life. Tail swipes mark the dirt. Grey shadows
that look like the landscape shifting—a part of
the paddock—become forms darting off into the
scrub.
If it’s him, I wonder, why would he run?
gurn-gurn kookaburra
Every now and then, offstage, a whirring starts.
It begins like a surprise, but the confidence that
erupts next erases any doubt that they’ve come in
before or after their cue.
It could be laughter as they say, but it’s a cry of a
different order. Rumbling from somewhere else
completely.
That mountain sits and observes like the bird
chorus around us. What it could sing. Could it
help me get my voice back?
There was a time when sound tumbled out of my
throat like kookaburra’s. Natural. Hurried but
unforced. Trills creating unique phrases.
I mean singing. But I don’t just mean singing. I’ve
clammed up in more ways than one.
werbil eagle
Very high up at cloud’s edge. A couple.
Always looking up searching for their two dots.
They fly all the way up and down the range.
Mum says that I’ve got good eyesight. I can spot
them.
Sure, I can find them, but I miss other things.
I do not know what I miss.
Was familiar.
It was.
Two eagles.
Not to be confused with whistling kites.
Eagles go higher.
Til they’re just a speck gradually moving across sky.