Ruby Street

it wasn't quite as ... ....................................... there's precision in the bird's cry the valley sucks it up ....................................... it's welcome, you don't know its meaning

The owl has moved on, by the way. We wish it well and hope it's not been separated from its group too soon in its life. But what do I know about the southern boobook. I hope that Annette's pix of it will turn out better than my own. A southerly came through today with a welcome change and a bit of rain, even a touch of thunder. But also, the change may have caused some nasties to grab a hold of my throat and sinuses. I shall now crawl off to bed and hope for the best. But I feel a cold or worse coming on. Boring.

A wonderful discovery this morning. Annette called me out into the garden, saying 'get your glasses on, there's an owl in the backyard'. Quiet as we could, despite morning traffic, landing jets, neighbourhood noise, despite the fact that other birds were squawking at it and around it, we edged out under one of the jacaranda trees. And looking up, there it was. An owl! There's something about being steadily regarded by an owl, almost as though the other is looking right through you, slightly chilling. An anthropomorphism, I know, but that was the feeling. We fluffed around with binoculars, my ditzy digi camera, the field guides to Australian birds (we have two). So far as we can determine, it's a southern boobook, probably a young one in what they call the pale phase. It looked big to us but it's probably within the 30 cm measure, which isn't a small bird. It also appeared tired. It yawned, if birds yawn, and looked as though it was trying to rest. I then rec...

A poem is muddy The children sing tirelessly It’s a hard act to follow