We’ve got a bird bath. And a bird bar. And wild birds. And a liquor cabinet.
On Friday nights when we get home from work we mix margaritas, whistling and singing, nude sometimes, and then we drink and clink our way upstairs to the bird bar.
The bar is a balcony for two that looks out west over the vale of Annandale in Sydney. We can see the horizon a kilometre away. There’s a gothic church spire. Lots of trees and birds, and aeroplanes. Sirens. Dogs barking down in the park. The thwack of bat on ball and endless appeals: ‘Howzaaat?!”
The sunsets blaze. The lightning storms way out west are a vivid and rending magnificence. This margarita’s not bad either. Quite strong. Am I slurring my type?
Tonight the bird bar was a deafening frenzy of lorikeets feasting on an unfurled seed pod next door.
All this close enough to the city to be knocked over by a cyclist as I walk to work. What a city.
A red wattlebird drinks from the tank water sprinkler on the lawn at dusk. There are bats in the mulberry tree at night.
Last week I saw a small bright sunbird that’s only meant to be in far north Queensland. (One more margarita. Better make it my last.)
We have downward dogs and upward cats and brush-tailed possums. Bloody things. Parsley possums I call them.
But they’re so cute! Big eyes and little hands (actually vicious claws) and furry tails. Earlier this week Wallington wandered out and fed one a carrot after watching it drink from the bird bath. None of my whinging could stop her. I threw glasses at them. I broke a window with my fist. I aimed but missed and shot someone on the other side of the valley by accident. More sirens.
We have garden skinks and spiders, and butterflies that only breed on clifftops like ours to enjoy the updraughts. They flop and float like pieces of dark cloth.
Oh baby, baby it’s a wild world on the 433 bus route.
Check out http://www.birdsinbackyards.net if you want to know more about you in this wonderful world.