On the other side of our back fence is a large park, a rolling expanse of grass with stands of mature gum trees. It’s the kind of real estate magpies love – big old trees for nesting and open plains for foraging – so naturally they behave as if they own the place.
When we first moved in, a pair of magpies landed on the fence, their heads cocked to one side, watching the puny humans struggle to tame the big back yard. When we mowed the lawn, they followed behind to graze on bugs and worms. They took showers under the sprinkler. They sat on the Hills Hoist and warbled as we pegged out the washing and picked through the piles of soil we left after planting trees.
Thanks to fellow bird nerds online we learned they were a couple. The male was large and a bit haughty, his feathers a shiny blue-black and a chest of brilliant white. The female was slightly smaller, with a greyish hue to the white feathers at her neck, shy and curious. They began to sit at the back door and sing in the mornings. They would saunter into the kitchen most days to see what we were up to. But then they discovered the cat’s bowl and began staging raids on his kibble. We knew we should not feed native birds but we could tell that this pair were already well-conditioned by the neighbourhood humans to anticipate food (why else would they sing at our door?).
The golden rule is DO NOT feed native birds. Human food is really bad for them, and devastating for their babies. But as I write this, daddy magpie is trotting across my kitchen floor making a beeline for the cat food. So we gave in to their humbug and now we offer them mealworms and wombaroo (there’s an insectivore formula) and, sometimes, very lean minced beef.
They seem so capable of living alongside humans, that I imagine their ancestors have been doing the same with mine, in this part of the continent, for generations. Patiently waiting at the camp fire for a bit of roo meat or some fish. Singing in the trees at dawn and dusk. I think we have been bumping along together for a long time.
There’s something nourishing about earning the trust of a wild animal. Our magpie neighbours bring their babies to meet us every season, four generations so far. One year, they had three babies. Mayhem. The youngest one liked bathing under the hose, or bombing his siblings in the bowls of water we left out for them each day. The eldest liked to make off with shiny things, including my jewellery. His siblings were often found pattering through the house, poking into pot plants, talking to mirrors, curious and unafraid.
So this is in praise of the back yard and, occasionally, house-dwelling birds who have kept our spirits up during this long lockdown. The magpie family are my favourite neighbours, but there’s also a pair of cheeky butcherbirds whose care for each other is a joy to watch. The female is missing an eye and her partner hunts on her behalf. There’s a gaggle of noisy miners who shriek en masse at every passing dog, and a gang of sulphur-crested cockatoos who hilariously take turns to swing upside down from the rope that dangles from the flagpole in the park.
They’ve had to share the place with way more of us humans than they normally would, but we are grateful. There’s nothing lovelier than sitting in the garden, with the sun golden on the angophoras over the fence, and listening to the late afternoon song of a magpie.
