WHOSE RESTAURANT RULES?

According to the rules of supply and demand they arrive without fail: They demand and I supply. I am talking about the 30 or so finches that front up for a feed every morning. It is a happy start to any day, watching them up close as they fly about with great agility.

The bird life around here is a delight, about 40 species all up, over 12 months. The most noticeable are finches, with two species dominating: Owl-faced (aka double-barred or banded) are the very prominent, at about 5:1 over the red-browed, firetail finches.

Their favourite foods are seeded grasses and seeded plants. Little birds, about 50gms and 10-11cm, they can often be seen nibbling at seed heads, while balancing on a grass stem, at some precarious angle. Owl-faced finches communicate using the short, “tiat” “tiat,” the longer and very genteel, “tiaaa” “tiaaa,” and other calls.

Owl-faced are communal creatures, sharing lodgings in beautifully formed sphere-like, roosting nests made of grass. Nests are not difficult to find, mostly at low-level in wattles and leafy bushes; sometimes two nests together. The birds can often be observed rushing about, from bush to bush in a great flurry of chirpy agitation, as though in some game. Late in the afternoon they gather and perch in the lantana and low shrubs, preening themselves and each other in the setting-sun.

When the sun rises so do my happy little, feathered friends. I only have to appear at or near the balcony and excited cries go out calling the colony together for their free tucker. My customers perch on their little mountain restaurant, and stare me out until I deliver (Feeder photo and bird pictures below). While crunching away at breakfast they cautiously keep watch, their communal eye intently focussed on me as if I am about to destroy them. At the slightest movement, even if I go to get more seed, they fly off instantly, en masse. I wish they trusted me more; after all, I do give them their daily bread and only have their wellbeing in mind.

Among them is one particular control-freak. Even though the firetail finches are numerically inferior, one fiery fellow is the self-appointed, fire-breathing, dictator, of a restaurant he neither built nor keeps supplied. Frankly, he is a greedy bully who shuffles about chasing away all others just so he can have it all to himself. So busy protecting his own interest he has no time to relax. Nor does he enjoy the company of his kind; he just pecks and pokes them out of his life as he focuses entirely on his own interests according to his selfish rules for survival. Unfortunately, this little brute mimics humanity, too well, which is sad indeed; and it need not be that way.

And, they keep me thinking, about all sorts of things...

SURELY YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS!

“One day Jesus said to his disciples, "Let's go over to the other side of the lake." So they got into a boat and set out. As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped, and they were in great danger. The disciples went and woke him, saying, "Master, Master, we're going to drown!" He got up and rebuked the wind and the raging waters; the storm subsided, and all was calm. "Where is your faith?" he asked his disciples. In fear and amazement they asked one another, "Who is this? He commands even the winds and the water, and they obey him." Luke 8:22-25.

When I reflect on those little finches, the ones who push, shove and seek everything for themselves at the expense of everyone else, it makes me think about whether I do the same, in some way. The other day I got stressed-out when things weren’t going the way I had planned: it was so frustrating as I tried to talk to someone at a call-centre’s so-called “help desk”, someone new, on her second day on the job; who really didn’t have a clue; who wasn’t born in Australia and couldn’t understand English; and, who took forever when time was short. I felt like I was drowning -- swamped by the impossible difficulty of something that should have been so simple.

And, when I think about those disciples, my fellow nongs, who figured they were going to cark it because they thought Jesus didn’t care, and that he certainly didn’t know what he was talking about when he said, “Let’s get going guys -- I’ll get us from here to there, no matter what turns up!” I ask myself, do I really trust Him for everything: to get me through this desperate world; to feed me and clothe me and house me, each day, without me ripping someone’s head off to get what I feel I need? Do I even trust him for the circumstances surrounding my exit from this earth to go to him, according to his choosing? "Where is my faith?" That’s a question I need answer each day. Meanwhile, it’s nice to know that he is serious and he knows exactly what he’s doing -- always.

Finches Feeding

They stare me out until I hand over the goods. 

They devour the seed in quick time. 

And sit there looking too cute. 

Finch Feeder ~ easy to make

Our bird feeder: the owl-faced or double barred finches are easily distinguished from the firetail finches with their red brow and tail feathers (more pictures somewhere below).

The feeder is made by modifying a hanging fern basket to hold a plastic pot-plant base, about 20cm diameter. A larger base can also be inverted and used as a roof. The projecting stick is a must-have.

Cat o' The Mountain

Cattess of Carisbrooke, the
Lady Edwina Ogwalder Grace Johnson D.S.H.


Contemplative? Perhaps.



Assuming her morning command position.

nongsanon

A few nongs are getting their noggins together at nongsanon. Anynong can comment; it will be good to hear different voices.

The End of Winter

The end of winter, for some, if it ever began here in this salubrious part of country-Australia.



Today brought the first Goanna for the new season, although it is still technically winter.



But goannas don't have calendars, at least not our kind.



If the goannas are now out, then the snakes are out and about, too. So, time to tread carefully.

I Am Such A Sausage, #1.

This is the inaugural "I Am Such A Sausage" post. IASAS is a little peak into my 'other' existence, the one I normally choose to keep quiet about. But I have decided, What does it really matter!.

Others may use another word for sausage, such as: dork, dill, male, a-bit-slow-kinda-guy, or whatever. Well, whatever is OK -- it is up to you.

~~~~~~~~
I Am Such A Sausage! #1.

Went with beloved-wife to Rivers Superstore (aka. buy our throw away lines, store) at Singleton at the weekend. I was after some shoes and did the whole shoe thing, like looking into box after box, at tag after tag; and tried on a few pair.

I noticed the shoes I chose were made in Pakistan, which is no big deal. I also noticed how scrungy the box looked; raw edged and not too flashy at all. Well, it is only a shoe box, I thought, as I reflected on the quality of shoe boxes which hold many an item in many a home. But these boxes wouldn't last twelve months in anyone's cupboard.

Went to the check-out with my ex-check-out-chic wife and checked-out the shoes and other miscellaneous purchases, which were dutifully bagged and receipted. On handing me the parcel the Rivers' check-out-chic said,

"You can bring them back for exchange/refund within thirty days, but not the boxes."

Ahhhh! I thought. I knew they were really crappy boxes. You don't even want them!
But why wouldn't you want the boxes to keep the shoes in if I did return them? That is too wierd, even I know you should keep the boxes.

It only lasted for a male-moment, for I realised that she meant the boxer shorts I had also purchased. Oh them --- you mean the boxers! Grumble-mumble.

~~~~~

So there it is sausage consumers, the inagural "I Am Such A Sausage".

Help me out here, if you want, and tell me what other words could be used for sausage.

In the meantime I am off for a sausage sandwich.

The Empty Chair

Those hypnotic specks of dust,
Reflecting in the blades of evening sun
Stream through her blinds, and mind,
Grip her last moments of mental energy,
Drag her eyes and roll them around her sockets,
Rocking her head to and fro.
Unbuttoning her blouse to cool
She kicks off her heels,
And despondently lets out her hair....

Moments before she had trudged in,
Tossed her keys on the table,
Lost her handbag on the floor, somewhere,
And threw her body into the couch.

And now, in one final moment
Of lonely self-castigation,
She flings her head back while
Sighing through her open mouth
Of unbelief as her mind
Empties involuntarily.

Only at 3pm he had come to her office
Sat in the chair,
That empty chair, in the afternoon sun.
Unknowingly, he then snatched
Her last reserves of will,
As if he had latched onto her
With a six foot pole and held her
Suspended, transfixed and immobilised.

Cat wanders in, confidently,
And claims his place on her lap,
Demanding her attention,
As only cats can.
Its tail brushes her face as
Her hand lifts unconsciously, and strokes,
But she has no idea --
Just as she never knew his name.

Depressingly she stamps her foot,
Freaks out the cat and gets her leg
Clawed as it scrambles for any other place.
A grimace of pain seizes her --
she flexed involuntarily.
Thoughts of another pair of nylons wasted
Away in the shadow of her memory
Of his face, his smile, his voice … him.


She has no understanding
Of what it was, if it was anything.
Nor why he had such an affect.
He had introduced himself and
She had heard but did not hear.
Now she could not even remember
Why he was there. Only that he was
That was enough --
Enough to turn her mind
Into every other thing but rational.

In a fugue state
She collapses, sideways.
Head becomes buried in a pillow,
And her top lip gets caught
At an awkward angle,
like a hooked fish.
Stretching, her feet find
The table with a dull thud.
Cat is no where to be seen.

The light, as it snares the look
Of an otherwise expressionless stare,
Continues playing its mind games
Highlighting the chair,
That empty chair,
Across the room.
And the dust did its thing too,
As dust does,
With just one shining speck.
Yet still,
She could not remember his name.

Curtains

How the curtains
have faded
like an old poet
who has been left
hanging, unmoved, closed.

Inside yearns
in the darkness;
even the shadows
are gone.