THIS ISSUE
When we came to our property in the Hunter Valley it was clearfelled pasture and had been so for half a century or more. There was so little standing timber that a friend dubbed it One Tree Hill and the name almost stuck. And yet, against all expectations, the birds came, if only to filch food from our chooks. Not just tuneful, soberly dressed magpies, currawongs and willie wagtails (that’s a wagtail nest opposite) but also flashy rainbow lorikeets; swirling flights of tiny, chittering robins and wrens; mobs of pastel-coloured galahs waddling gravely across the grass; nervous, squeaky-winged crested pigeons and flocks of boofhead wood ducks. Further away, white egrets scoured the paddocks right under the heels of the neighbours’ cattle while bald ibises, so shabby and awkward on foot, massed in…