Flocks and flocks of Brown['s] honeyeaters (Lichmera indistincta) around the bird bath today, still thinking they can hover and fly upside down.
This is odd, because I hardly ever see them when it's dry, when you think it would be hard for them to find water.
Maybe they're breeding?
Pizzey and Knight say they do that from June to January, so it may indeed be pay night in Lichmeraville.
I'll try later and see if I can find any traces of nests around the place -- they're too small to range very far.
One website says that cats prey on the nests.
There's a horrible black feline next door belonging to the Baskervilles.
His name is Max.
I see him in the garden sometimes, but he's always too quick for me to reach for the .22.
Shall get the bastard one day but and then he'll be Max-Doubt.
I can watch these little guys, the Brown['s] and their companions, New Holland honeyeater, Wattlebird and Silvereye, all day.
They would bring joy to the most meaningless life.
The possession of a bird bath is akin to the possession of a soul.
P&K give a rather sad description of their nests: "cup of grass, twigs; in depression".
Sounds like an alcoholic swaggie.
The above website is more poetic: "The small neat cup-nest is made from fine bark, grasses and plant down, bound with spiders web, and is slung by the rim in a shrub, fern or tree...".
I shall look out, then, for a small neat cup-nest.
Who wouldn't?
