The Magpie Chronicles

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.