Ode to the Bowerbird

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  Wallaby Creek, Australia
Sunday, October 7, 2007

Day 32 (25 at Wallaby Creek)                                                      October 7, 2007
 
             Since I am here at Wallaby Creek to study the satin bowerbird for three and a half months, it is probably a good thing that I find them very interesting.  Having never been an avid bird watcher before coming to Australia, I must now admit that I understand completely why so many people are.  Since I am daily given the task of watching birds for five hours in the morning, either from a blind, or in the forest while searching for bowers, I have clearly had a lot of time to observe the various birds of eastern New South Wales, and have found great pleasure in discovering the dispositions and politics among species, and to witness the disputes and interactions that occur when multiple birds encounter a single source of food.  To illustrate this experience, the following is an account of a typical day of trapping.
 
             I arrive at one of the four trapping sites in our weekly rotation at ten past five, as it's just getting light enough to make out a mob of a half dozen kangaroos observing me with rapt attention from a nearby hill, each frozen in various acts of standing or bending to graze like a collection of weird druid standing stones

Mail satin bowerbird

.  I drop my daypack at the blind and follow two lines of twine stretching out forty feet or so to the two traps, where I carefully balance the swinging doors of each hard mesh cube on a stick, to which the lengths of string are tied.  I then begin peeling carrots, slicing an orange, and crumbling bread into each cage.  Before I am finished, my efforts have already gained the attention of a very excitable group of red-browed finches.  I am soon enveloped with the gentle purr of their hyperactive wings propelling them about my periphery.  All around me, at a 6-foot radius, I am soon surrounded by tiny, animated, olive-colored balls of energy.  Their body plumage matches the foliage so well that I mainly see the disembodied red patches above their eyes and on their tails jostling about with my every movement, as if the merest twitch of my foot were setting them off like a static electric spark.  They readily pounce upon the avian banquet, once I have turned my back and headed for the blind.  Inside, I take a seat, decant the first of many cups of instant coffee from my thermos, and watch the finches attempt to choke down chunks of bread far larger than their diminutive beaks, waiting with binoculars at the ready for the approach of my quarry.
             This latter "waiting for my quarry" bit can easily, depending on the prevailing conditions on a given day, last between two minutes and the time till the next Ice Age.  Almost unerringly, though, at some point between the Period of the Finches and the Dawn of the Bowerbirds comes an Age of the Currawongs

male satin in flight

.  This last period is often subdivided by internecine Magpie Reigns.  At the beginning of a given epoch during the Age of Currawongs, say the Neocurracene, the much larger Currawongs will frighten off the tiny finches and commence with a high-pitched yodeling lament, which oddly seems to advertise to others the unfortunate discovering of abundant food.  At this effective dinner bell, each of the strange three-walled food containers becomes overrun with currawongs and momentarily serves as a perch, as well as a soapbox, a buffet, an outhouse, and a jousting arena.
             Into this chaotic hustle-bustle, the occasional Lewin's honeyeater will dart in, the unique yellow comma next to its beak, like a dimple, gives it the appearance of grinning impishly as it makes off with a sizeable crumb.  On the outskirts of the frenzy, placidly flitting about hither and thither, one can spot the plump little forms of superb fairy wrens.  The males, with their brilliant blue heads and tails, zip around with such irregular twitches that they move as if filmed by stop-motion photography, seemingly teleporting from one place to another.  And then this boisterous atmosphere is of a sudden cleaved by the low, grinding double note "KGEH-neh" that heralds the entrance of a new player.
 
             A brief rustling is heard in the shadowy undergrowth behind the traps.  Wait for it - the timing must be perfect - waaaaiiiit...now!  A startlingly violet-blue male satin bowerbird, its blunt yellow beak contrasting nicely with his iridescent plumage, his stark purple eye turned in profile toward the scene, bursts forth from his shadowy cover in one mighty leap, and stands motionless

tree overlooking the cabin

.  The furtive Samurai, always alert to danger, casts a critical eye over the festivities.  Issuing forth another two note "KGEH-neh," and thus providing his own theme music for this performance, he executes another impressive leap, the whole of his body lunging forward through a massive contraction of muscles, legs stretched inexorably forward, defying gravity for a moment in a double-pronged-preying-baza Ninja kick, to land with casual aplomb: still.  Nice, thinks the bird.  Another "KGEH-neh," this time with an added ninety-degree head pivot and a right angled turn to stare appraisingly at the ground.  What's that?!  Oh...it's a piece of grass.  Another hop.
             Now he's standing next to the funny shiny thing with food in it.  He torques his head left.  Wait.  Look.  He assesses the situation with the practiced ease of a seasoned warrior.  A bird warrior.  "KGEH-neh."  There are two currawongs on the shiny thing beside him.  One is yodeling, the other has found a mite under its wing and is pecking at it furiously.  It keeps doing that.  It must have got it by now, but it just keeps digging in there.  What a stupid bird! 
             He hops closer, this time keeping his body low, but maintaining a keen eye on the other funny shiny thing with food in it.  There is a big fat magpie inside it flapping its wings at a young brown male and pecking at him.  The younger one is clearly intimidated and tries to fly away, but at every turn connects beak-first with some hard thing

myself, at "Big Tree"

.  Wait.  It backs up...flies...hits an invisible wall again.  Wait.  This time it hits a different wall and- he's found a way out.  He's gone.  What an idiot, thinks the blue male bowerbird. 
             The fat magpie is now jabbing ferociously at a carrot with a long, light blue beak.  I like blue, thinks the blue male, but not on that jackass.  "KGEH-neh."  He does a small hop and rounds the front of the funny shiny thing and turns his head ninety degrees left and 120 degrees downward, so that his eye is very close to the ground.  What's that?! he thinks with a sudden shocked interest.  Oh...it's a bit of grass.  He does several expert and balanced hops, stopping three-quarters of the way to the funny thing with the fat magpie in it.  With two positively handsome flaps, he alights on the edge of the funny thing with food in it and observes the crass bird below him voraciously tucking into a piece of bread, head thrown back for easy gulping.
             Meantime the dim currawong with the mite has stopped its psychotic preening and is now staring off into space, while his comrade still yodels his forlorn cry, "Currah currAH," to the sky in general.  Our hero, finally deciding on a plan of action, defecates into the shiny thing with food and a fat magpie in it and swoops down onto the threshold of the other funny shiny thing.  It is empty except for the glorious array of delectables strewn about enticingly inside.  "KGEH-neh!"  He hops onto the first funny, shiny branch and snags a slice of carrot

a land leech reaching into space

.  He pivots, beak overflowing with this uncommon delight, warily surveying his surroundings.  Dumb, fat magpie stuffing his crop.  Then there's that other funny thing over there.  Straighter than a normal tree trunk - makes funny sounds sometimes.  It even kinda rustles-What's that?!  He thinks with sudden urgency to himself.  Oh, it's...some grass.  Swallowing the bit of carrot, our hero is intrigued by the allure of citrus.  He smells the sharp bitterness and spies a glorious half-orange set right in the middle of the funny shiny thing.  "Currah currAH!" shouts the currawong in his random, stupid manner.  With one last head cock, our hero valiantly leaps into the center of the funny shiny thing, dips his head to take one delicious, savory bite when-Wham!   A loud banging noise and suddenly there's no way out.  The bird flaps and hops in every direction, but painfully collides with something funny and shiny every time.  The walls suddenly roll over and over and he looks up to see an opening and a towering creature looking greedily down at him.  At once quick, grasping limbs shoot out at him.  But he is faster.
             Recovering his calm, our hero neatly dodges the next two clumsy attempts to capture him, but, alas, a wing has become snagged ina  corner, and he is being pressed around his chest with powerful claws.  He struggles, flails his talons, but connects with nothing.  He hears a funny sound, not like a bird.  "I finally got you, you wily bugger!"  The bird hears this kind of nonsense in the forest sometimes and also near that other funny tree-like thing, but he does not understand it

upon discovering RDG had stolen my case again

.  He does not know what will happen to him, if he will be eaten or smashed or held like this forever, but he does not like this pressure holding his wings, this darkness threatening to come over his head.  If he could just - yes - if he could only turn his head around towards the beast, wrench it free - yes!  And bite hard.  He hears more sounds.  "Ooooow, you dirty bastard!  You're not getting aw-Aaaaah!"  And with the purchase provided by his beak's grip, the savvy Samurai back in full form, our hero gallantly, courageously rakes his razor sharp talons across the exposed forelimb of the terrifying beast.  And with a clever intake of breath, a roll of the shoulders, he is falling.  Stretching his wings to catch air, he soars just over the grass, a few blades just grazing his underbelly.  With some rapid flapping he is already high and swooping into the forest's safety.  Wow that was close! he thinks.  

             After flying for some time, his heart has stopped thumping so hard and he is suddenly feeling hungry.  He sits on a eucalypt branch for a minute.  Then he hears the far-off cries of some currawongs.  Stupid birds, he thinks.  Still, it could mean food.  He carefully wings it toward the sound.  From the height of a pine, he expertly scans the scene.  There's a magpie - a fat magpie and three smaller ones crammed into a funny shiny thing and shoveling bread down their throats like it's the last food in the forest.  A green female bowerbird is hissing at the back of one of them, but he's ignoring her.  The currawong continues his incessant cawing from atop the other funny shiny thing, which is empty except for the great pile of carrots and crumbs.  Stupid bird, he thinks.

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Flies, Flies, FLIES!!	an epiphyte and a towering eucalypt	crossing the fields on Eastern Trail	graphing tiles in an ornamentation experiment
dusk from the understory	black and white of juvenile goanna	Brendan tries to pelt annoying lapwing

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