Broken Wing
Our property has become a haven for
the hungry and rejected – fellows of the feathered variety.
This afternoon, “Broken Wing” made
her daily appearance – tapping on the back door for her daily feed.
As the Magpie's name suggests, she cannot fly, but rather waddles
across the grass like an old duck.
Amongst the trees in the back of the
yard is an ancient greenhouse, a ladder propped against it. At the
top, surrounded by thick leaves, is Broken Wing’s home.
Once the diligent bird is fed, she hops
off the porch, to then settle in a large bowl full of rain water, and
has her bath. She must love the water, because she spends at least 5 to
10 minutes, cleaning and cooing in delight. Finally satisfied, she
waddles in great haste across the grass, her left wing extended,
awkwardly stiff in place, to then climb the ladder, one rung at a
time. Once reaching the roof of the greenhouse, she nestles in the
shade of the foliage, preening, and hiding from the other birds.
Grandma
Since I have been staying at the family
home, particularly over the last week, my attention has been focused
on the birds. A wide variety of characters, really, these winged
creations have different demeanour's, and exceptional, intelligent
personalities. As said, Broken Wing’s daily visit has become
routine, edged now in my consciousness. The bird arrives for
breakfast and an early brunch, only two times a day - morning and
early afternoon. She has chosen these times because the light from
the sun is at its brightest, where she can see other Maggie’s
in the area, preventing an attack, bullied, stealing her food from
her beak: “Grandma” is entirely a different bird.
Our first encounter was several weeks
ago, which affected me, because she landed on the back porch with
great effort. (Bad landing) Once on the ground, she tried to jump-up
on the wooden walk-way, (10 centimetres high) and the old girl
tripped over, standing up-right swiftly, retaining her dignity. She
was not in good shape: feathers grey in colour and balding on one
side of her little head. I pinched a small morsel of raw beef and
tossed it, willy-nilly in her direction. The old bird walked over and
managed to get the food in her mouth – she did not fly away like
the others, but walked, bouncing side to side, disappearing under a
large bush.
Some weeks have passed.
As I sleep late working at night, there
had been no opportunity to see Grandma. Rising early one morning,
drinking a coffee at table, too early for me, grandma flew down to
the steps; did not recognize her at first, but saw her demeanour.
She’s changed, fluttering her wings (showing off) and her bald spot
had gone, now a deep black feather…
Today was a joy to see her, preening
herself, a new confidence and pride. A lovely old lady, banished from
the flock, perceived by the young ones to be of no use anymore, has
transformed into a strong, happy and healthy Magpie.
Broken Wing (Addendum)
Awoke this morning after a long sleep…
my habit is to write late into the night, only to rise too early
today in a terrible mood. Since a child, waking early, my “presence”
of mind is not at all in this world. Let me just say, it takes me
awhile to wake up. As my habit goes, rolled a cigarette, and
travelled outside the back, to see old Broken Wing waddle up for his
morning feed. Noticed that the bird is becoming more familiar with
me; not running away across the lawn in great haste towards her
ladder. Finished my smoke and retrieved the meat we share with the
flock. I opened the glass doors, to witness Broken Wing attacked by
an unknown, winged assailant. The attack, a dive-bomb assault,
nicking his good wing. The old bird panicked, waddling, zit-zagging
to the ladder, climbing one rung at a time. Because this is a pain
planet, an alien planet for most souls, Broken Wing missed his
breakfast. I know we will see her tomorrow, knowing she is safe in his
make-shift home on the roof in the ancient green house.
The Singing Duchess and
her Court
When a bird the size of a large cat
flies at great speed from the open sky in one’s direction, its wing
span wide and unknown, landing at the door in a split second of
sudden haste, anyone would take a step back. My first thought, “What
a magnificent creature.” She peeped in the window, making eye
contact with me with her single astonishing eye; I perceived
awareness in one of God’s creatures, truly a soul of a higher
order, and then, man, she began to sing.
The musical notes were loud and clear.
The bird sang a vast conglomeration of notes from a deep bass, to a
faultless, abnormally high falsetto. She was the largest Magpie ever
seen in Australia, as said, her wing span wide and impressive; so one
would understand my hesitancy, opening the door and feeding the large
bird. Looking again through the window, behind this majestic bird,
was a collection of followers – the Duke, her humble mate, a Lover,
young in appearance, and her royalty’s Son, a beautiful small
magpie not quite sure about the ways of the world.
Grabbed the meat and gathered enough
courage to open the sliding glass doors – the Duchess showed me her
appreciation with a song that lasted at least a minute. The volume of
her singing rivalled any bass players’ amplifier experienced in my
“off and on” musical career. The Duchess’s song resembled short
stints of Mozart, Beethoven; the sonata escapes me now and at the
time. I feed the Duchess a fair amount, throwing the meat in the air,
she, no worries, catching the morsel like a seasoned football player,
the ball landing in her hands while falling into the end zone from
eighty yards. Her Majesty was soon satisfied, flying into the clouds
with grace, leaving her Royal Court wondering what I, this astonished
human, would do next. Following “pecking order protocol”, first
tossed the Duke a large morsel, then the Lover, then the Son, etc.,
each leaving one at a time, chirping their thanks.
Mozart would walk most mornings,
because as he said, “a time of inspiration” – the song of the
birds.
Fighter Pilot aka
Butcher Bird
Awoke this morning after a long sleep…
my habit is to write late into the night, only to rise too early
today in a terrible mood. Since a child, waking early, my “presence”
of mind is long and far away. Let me just say, it takes me awhile to
come to full consciousness. As my habit goes, and has for many years,
rolled a cigarette, and travelled outside the back. My first
encounter with Fighter Pilot was while in a morning daze in a haze of
tobacco smoke, and happened like a streak of white light in the
corner of my eyes. (No, not hung-over) The smoke cleared and looking
up above in the eucalyptus tree, standing regally, was Fighter Pilot.
(See image below)
Fighter Pilot’s scientific genus is
Cracticus, a magpie-like bird called throughout Australasia as The
Butcher Bird. This is a misnomer; they are not only predators but
small songbirds: belonging to over 4000 other species found globally.
Fighter Pilot can sing, though he is reluctant at the moment, as he’s
enemies are all around him. Fighter Pilot’s true gift is flying.
Man, can this little bird fly!
Tossed him a good size portion and he
caught it and dropped a sliver. Swooping from nowhere, an unknown
magpie, stole the morsel. Well, old fighter would not suffer this
theft, shooting upward with military precision, knocked the bird,
taking the morsel in the air! An act never seen and probably never
will again.
Fighter Pilot only flies in on
occasion. When he does bless us with his presence, he now is
accompanied by his unassuming wife, wedging pieces of meat in the
fork of a branch in the eucalyptus tree, leaving this food only for
her.
Witnessed many great flyers over
lifetimes…Fighter Pilot is over and above, the Best.
Australian Crow Attack
Making coffee this morning, Grandma and
Broken-Wing were sitting on the railing of the porch. Once seeing me
through the glass door, both birds stood and began to sing, their
obvious song for breakfast. Opened the door and began throwing the
morsels in the air: an attempt to get them confidently flying again.
Grandma flew upwards to catch her meal, when a ferocious looking bird
swooped in grabbing the meat in the air; Grandma then landed and
waddled in fear under a bush. Broken-Wing followed suit, only finding
safe haven in a small space under the porch. Both birds were
absolutely terrified. The large bird returned, landing on the end of
the clothes line. I recognised the bird immediately – proper name
is Kurrawong, aka, the infamous Australian Crow.
This Crow on the clothes line was
particularly large – at least 20 inches tall, odd grey eyes with an
alien pupil, and large hackles (neck feathers) giving the crow a
definite hostile appearance. She opened her beak, screaming loudly –
‘arrrr, arr, arrrrrr’, sounding almost human. Decided to throw
her some meat, she adeptly flew in the air, catching it with graceful
ease. She landed on top of the green house when, from every direction
came several other crows all screaming, their large wings flapping,
creating a feeling of frantic-ness. There had to be at least ten
crows flying in circles, while others zit-zagged and hitting one
another – a cacophony of ‘arrrr, arrrr, arrrr’ ending in a
violent crescendo, and many landing on the roof above me. Curious as
to what kind of behaviour to expect, I began throwing several pieces
of food into the air, and each, in effortless dives and swoops, crows
caught the meat in flight, nothing at all hitting the ground. Once I
stopped feeding them, they disappeared as fast as they appeared –
only much later that afternoon, Grandma and Broken-Wing returned,
always looking sky-ward, prepared for another attack. I’m waiting
for their ominous return.
Bonnie and Clyde
The “Minor Bird” is endemic to
Australia and has been nick-named, “Noisy Minor” - a grey bird,
with a black head, orange-yellow beak and feet, a distinctive yellow
patch behind the eye and white tips on the tail feathers.
A small flock of Minor’s descended on
the property some months ago, breeding, claiming this new land was
now their territory, their home. The young have since left in search
for a territory of their own, leaving behind their parents. This last
remaining two of the flock, I have come to name, Bonnie and Clyde.
As many know of these iconic criminals, the
handsome Clyde acted as the muscle and Bonnie the beautiful and
distracting seductress. Bonnie would enter the bank, with her beauty
and unspoken charm, attracting the attention of every male employee.
Clyde would move in, almost invisible, rifle in hand, and rob the
unsuspecting teller. Before the staff knew it, this romantic duo
would be in their getaway car, riding in to the sunset, a little
richer.
This is an old con trick – sleight of
hand – distracting the victim from the prize, stealing before they
have a clue. The good con will take with the left hand, while the
right hand does the job – the
“mark” never the wiser.
Our recent feathered migrants do
exactly as the crooks and cons have done since antiquity.
Old Broken Wing will hop down the
ladder, one rung at a time, and waddle to the door of the house for
her morning feed. A morsel of meat is thrown out into the air,
dropping to the ground; down from the trees swoop Bonnie and Clyde.
Bonnie will jump on Broken Wing, over and over in an aggressive
manner. Clyde will then move in, taking the meat, and fly back into
the trees. Bonnie follows knowing the prize has been won. Broken Wing
is left with nothing – a victim of the oldest con in the world.
Post Script:
Currently, I have taken on the role of
Broken Wing’s body guard. The old bird will arrive for her
breakfast. She waits until the meat is tossed to the ground. Rather
than going back inside, I’ll stand at the door, watching the trees.
She finishes her breakfast, and I wait, ensuring she gets back to the
ladder, climbing up one rung at a time, and safe from the criminals
in the sky.
Winter has come Upon Us
Winter has come upon us – cold, rain,
and a little sunshine. Awoke late today to feel the home in a
miserable atmosphere. Weather does affect many people, more so, those
that have only known balmy skies and warm nights.
It is Saturday. I attended all the
chores required, and now in retrospect, in a somewhat robotic
fashion. I felt unwell, and only wanted to sit in my chair by the
fire and read.
My mother’s partner attended to the
birds today. He knows each of them by sight, talking to them as
individuals. I do not care anymore. I returned to my book.
In a half dream, my friend told me, her
beautiful eyes, “You come back, my friend.” Closing the book, I
had fallen to sleep and dreamt I was flying through the trees...
with her.
She has never returned.
End of a season with the birds.
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