Dear Little Wattlebird that wakes me at 5am every morning, thank you.
You may not have the prettiest of voices, but I know that your call is to your mate and to your wee babes and I know that your little family is safe in the tibouchina tree beside the house and that makes me feel safe too.
Thank you Red Wattlebird who starts calling not long after, whose call is markedly more interesting, “rice pudding, it’s hot!” or “it’s comical, tickle tickle” (ok yes, people tell me that is not actually what he is saying, but they are wrong. It is clearly all about rice pudding and tickles). You are much larger than your cousin and as you flit through the paperbark and go back and forth through the yard I hear you bouncing about, all stripey greys and lemon yellow blushed belly and those cheeky wattles so very red. Sharp eyed and so beautiful. Thank you for keeping me amused, always. Tickle tickle.
Dear Koel, we don’t get to see each other all year, but thank you. Thank you for providing me with a sense of wonder at the way you come from so far away to sing sweet nothings to female Koels from the abundance of the mulberry. Thank you for inspiring me with your faery-like looks, all shadows and night and eyes of crimson, and for bringing your equally beautiful females to the mulberry - her Beetlejuice suit all dark greys and tans and soft cream. It is her striped under tale that I find so alluring, and I bet so do you, that and her little less intense red eyes. I am not convinced that you, and your Channel-billed cousin with his dinosaur gwark gwark gwark are from this plane of existence, I will be honest. Do you really migrate south, or do you come through the faery veil, leaving your cuckoo children to ensure our two lands have connection, always? Perhaps that is a story for another day.
Thank you Magpies for your joyful singing in the mornings and evenings, the bush song of Australia. Clear and bright, I want to raise my head and sing with you. Thank you for your friendship over the years. Though I know the bushes in my yard are too big now to make you feel safe to sunbake the way you used to, but you keep all the others safe by warning of the sparrowhawk and the goshawk and chasing them off when you can.
To my pink and grey friends, the first birds to visit outside of Maggies and Sparrows some 20 years ago. You were the start of my birding obsession, and I thank you, dear Galah. I thank you for your sweet faces and gentle calls, for your delightful candy colouring - I always expect you to smell like the musk lollies you look like. Thank you for the way you bring your babies, as noisy and hungry, to my yard and drop them off for the day - I am honoured to be your creche. Thank you for making me laugh when you reach your teen years and race the baby Magpies, ducking and diving in ways Maverick could only dream of, squawking with delight as you do so. And for the ways you hang upside down in the gum tree, wings open, when it is raining after a day of heat - a communal shower, cooling your pits, fluffing up your pantaloons, comb raised twisting and turning and revelling in gravity’s assistance. You make my face ache, I smile so hard. I have watched so many of you from not long after you fledge, to pairing with your forever love, to having babes of your own, and I am so honoured to sing your song.
Dear Rainbow Lorikeets - let’s hope the gum never, ever, flowers like that again. You were torturous for a couple of months this year, too many of you, high on nectar, screeching at each other constantly. Oh my stars. While I can say it was a unique experience, it is not one I would be keen to revisit every year. Too early in the morning for that racket, and still, and still, you are magic too - yes, chaos, but also magic. The brightness of your colours seems incongruous with the way you can hide in plain sight, the way you meld into the gum leaves in their fiery new flush, their green of maturity, their yellow of age, and the sky of blue behind. You all but disappear. It is your not-at-all-pretty voice that gives you away. Thank you also for giving me a bully to complain about. How is it that you can push a Corella five times your size around? And a Cockie even? You take up so much space. You are tiny, but you are fierce, and for all your ‘faults’ I adore you still.
This letter to my backyard kin could go on for days.
I am yet to thank the currawong, the Sparrows, the Crested Pigeon and Spotted Doves. I haven’t thanked the Willy Wagtail and the Ravens, the Rosella and Figbird, and though they have been mentioned, I have not thanked the birds of prey and the Corella, both Little and Long Billed. I have not extended thanks to the Silver Eyes and Wrens and the Red Brow Finches who used to visit daily but have not been here for a couple of years. To the Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoo and the Kookaburra and the Noisy Miners. I haven’t thanked the King Parrot, infrequent visitor, but so beautiful I can barely look, and who chose right now as I was writing this to appear. Quiet and unassuming and so brave to venture down to eat with all the noisy others.
There are so many others I am thankful for, but not listed here.
I thank you all because you remind me I am a being, a wild hearted-being, not a machine, not a manikin.
Most importantly, you remind me I am not alone.
And that means more than you can know on the not infrequent days that are dark and hard.
You remind me that I have wings too, I just have to remember them, and unfurl them with a roll of my shoulders and an opening of my heart and a willingness to ascend on the breath of trees.
You remind me to find time to breathe, to watch the beauty around me, to be present and to engage with my more-than-human kin.
You remind me to dream big and let my spirit soar up and over hills, into the clouds and far away.
I thank you all, but I have one boy I want to thank most.
Over the years I have developed special relationships with a number of different birds - Magpies, Galah, and even a Corella-Galah hybrid. But this Sulphur Crested Cockie has my heart at the moment.
Thank you, dear one, with your lemon kissed cheeks and your sweet and gentle nature, for letting me feed you sunflowers from my palm. For sending me quiet sounds to let me know you are here, and for tapping quietly on the window when you can see I am not paying attention. For letting me touch your scaley toes and their long and powerful talons. For a quick swipe of my fingers across your soft breast, tolerated, not entirely approved.
Thank you for looking deep into my eyes and showing me your wild perfection, your humanity, your infinite wisdom and grace.
Thank you for reminding me we are the same, that we are born of the stars, that we belong to this earth, and that we will always be better together.
PS: This was a one hour challenge from
with and . Trying to write a post from start to finish in an hour (ok, so getting the photos together took me almost as long) is a welcome challenge, a way to shake off some perfectionism, to write boldly and from the heart, and to be ok with knowing not everything you write needs to be world changing. It can be world appreciating instead, curious and kind but perhaps not worthy of, say, a Nobel Prize. Like this, a little glimpse into my world.I am curious, if you were to give yourself an hour to write a thank you letter to someone, or something, what would you say? Who or what comes to mind straight away? Why?
I would love to know. Let me know in the comments, and let’s spread the joy that heartfelt thanks brings.
Beautiful, Natalie! I did a writers residency where my room was on the 5th floor of a monastery. I was in the canopy with a million birds. It was heavenly (no pun intended, but hey...). I don't know if I can post the video here but will try.. You would enjoy it!
I read this while the birds outside my window were finishing their own morning chorus. An entirely different collection of voices to yours, Natalie, but so lovely to be reminded to take notice again.
I used to wake at 3am by choice to hear the dawn chorus and to lead walks in our local woodland; followed by a massive fried breakfast at a local cafe with fellow bird nuts; then back to bed for a few hours before waking again to another whole new day. Two days for the price of one.
Wonderful piece, Natalie! Thank you.