I hate the grackle bird.

I live in my personal quarter acre of forest in the middle of manicured suburbia – in a wooden shack. (OK, it’s not a shack, it’s a fairly run down old house.)

Much as I like having my trees, they are high maintenance. Roots love to strangle plumbing, and those leaves that don’t clog my rainpipes have to be raked and cleared All The Time.

But trees bring other creatures with them. Possums who bound and thump in the heights of passion on the roof at night, multitudinous fat spiders, and the birds that eat them. Oh, I have an enthusiastic morning chorus.

That wouldn’t be so bad except for one bird in particular. I call it the Grackle Bird* and I have no idea what it is – some kind of Starling, Jay or Mynah is my guess. It’s a dirty brown bird with a dirty brown voice. In short, it Grackles. Every morning. At 6 am. And I hate it.

I have one other bird that’s annoying me right now. My neighbour’s pear tree is fruiting. It’s too high to pick the fruit, and every year the rosellas arrive in February to reap the spoils for about 2-3 weeks. They spend the day fighting over the bounty. It’s a colourful noisy riot. This year though, there is a rosella in the flock that seems to be ill. It’s moulting, scruffy and it has a foul temper. It doesn’t have a melodic tweet. It hisses and squarks at the other birds – sort of like that alpha seagull you always encounter at the beach that keeps the others away from you to get the best cold chips. I’d throw a rock and try to drive it away but I don’t have the heart.

The pears will be gone soon. I hope.

* yes, I know there is another bird called the Grackle, but I only found this out later and I’m sticking with my name for this one.


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