Last week we lobbed on the mother on a gorgeous Sunday, girl #1 running wild in the sunbaked suburbia, girl #2 obliging with a gentle nap in the car as I drove the streets of my old town, Bexley North, festooned as they were with an accumulation of consumerist rubbish. I love a clean-up campaign, but, with Ebay and gumtree and the like, they ain’t what they used to be.
Anyway, over coffee, my mum told me a flock of yellow-tailed black cockies had gone overhead. Raucous, like a bunch of Yabbas heckling Jardine.
I was sad to miss them; I like a good bird almost as much as I like a good plane.
We headed home as the sun disappeared, and around the corner, I heard a voice – “Mr Jardine, you leave our flies alone”. Up on the Foxtel cable, 17 black cockies. Diving in and out of a callistemon (bottlebrush). Talking shit and dropping shit.
I pulled over and snapped away with the phone. When I downloaded the images today, it struck me how musical this little quartet looked. Someone with actual musical knowledge might like to explain what notes they are playing on the stave…