#46 Dawn chorus in the bush

Birdlife awakens well before the sun appears, and welcomes the new day with a burst of energy and song. Whether I am at home or in the bush, this is a delight to my senses and spirit.

Camping puts me right amongst this glorious natural event, and I immerse myself, allowing the wondrous atmosphere of sound and sight to touch the soul of my being.

Although the individual notes and tunes can be exquisite, it is often the ‘whole picture’ made up of the collective details that captivates me:

. . . . . Pastel hues of pink and blue are streaked across the colourless dawn sky. I’m sitting in bed with the door open and all windows rolled down so that the outside drifts in. My coffee is good, and the crisp air touches my skin.

The river sounds the same as it did yesterday, and through the night as I lay in bed; gentle ripples and gurgles as the water pushes past dangling branches, backed by the subdued murmur of the rushing stream.

Sweet-sounding chirps and trills float in on the fresh morning air, punctuated by a lingering hush; whistles and ringing join in, and the air is suddenly filled with a melodious chorus. There is a flurry of activity as the Fuscous Honeyeaters and their brood flap about in the Callistemon, bravely harassing the larger Striped Honeyeater.

The high-pitched single-note ping of a King Parrot pierces the air, and the distinctive squabble-like babble of the Eastern Rosellas wafts down from the canopy.

Fuscous Honeyeater

Striped Honeyeater

The loud, monotonous, and strangely hypnotic call of the Peaceful Dove reverberates above all other calls, and the muffled boom of the Bronze-winged Pigeon drifts in from afar when there was a lull. And then the Sulphur-crested Cockatoos arrive for a noisy meeting before leaving for their feeding grounds.

Once quiet, the familiar chatter from the Red-browed Firetails and Willy Wagtails is delightful. There is much preening. I am smiling from the inside out.

Willy Wagtail

Red-browed Firetail

I carry my camp stool to the waters edge and sit under a drooping Callistemon to observe activity on and around the river.

The sun has just scaled the mountain, casting a soft warm light on the tall seeding grasses on the opposite river bank. This beautiful light also highlights the ‘dancing’ mayflies above the silently flowing mid-stream of the river. They resemble tiny marionettes manipulated by hidden puppeteers; they free-fall fast, then jiggle and twirl a happy little dance on the way up, and then drop again. And then the tempo increases and they all liven up, and then slow again. A moth rushes through, stuttering, as if to taunt the performers with “look at me, look at me”. A Little Pied Cormorant flies by, just inches from the water, as if attempting to pass without interrupting.

I am entertained, and my imagination is stirred.

My riverside spot to enjoy the early morning

A Sacred Kingfisher calls its distinctive five or six-note descending “kik kik kik kik kik…” from the top of a Eucalypt.

A scruffy young Eastern Yellow Robin lands in the Callistemon right beside me, and dives on something unseen in the grass, and flies off. Floating water insects skip forward in a movement so fast that it is almost undetectable, holding position momentarily, legs indenting the water instead of penetrating it. And they skip again. Marvellous!

Damselflies dart around in a frenzy, their wings now warmed enough for their daily activities, and brilliant Swallowtail butterflies flutter by, pausing to taste the bottle-brush blossoms.

No singing from this Sacred Kingfisher

with a mouthful of frog

[All bird images by my husband, Grahame]

A few straggling white cockies perch across the river; one larrikin hangs onto the end of a thin dangling twig and spins around and around like a high-wire circus actor – such a comic, but his mates just look on with bored expressions. I am impressed, and laugh out loud. They fly off, and there is silence.

A downy white feather floats to earth, is caught in an invisible strand of spider silk at my feet, and twirls over and over, til it stops and just hangs, as if suspended in thin air. The breeze whispers and sighs through the Casuarina foliage, and a sandy-brown frog plops into the water. . . . .

Yes, it is pure magic – a privilege; a gift.