Birds
Today I went in search of a sleeping pelican, as sleeping pelicans are pretty much the best thing ever: great big pelican lumps, heads turned backwards and beaks buried in feathers, and then they wake up and gradually unfold, swivelling out and blinking open their glaring peevish eyes.
I didn't find a sleeping pelican, but I did find a great big waking pelican as it landed clumsily on water, and then immediately started gliding on graceful patrol as if it would never ever splash. Also, a pile of five sleeping ducklings watched over by an alert parent duck; ten black swans twisting their necks around and digging in the grass; many parrots; more ducklings; starlings in a palm tree; and forty tiny brown sparrows in the dirt, flapping it around and blending in so well that they were barely visible except for the movement of their wings.
And then I came across a few copies of this sign:
Oh, Australia, I thought: you and your alarmist warnings. I understand it, I do; I too mention the deadly spiders and don't dwell on the fact that it's twenty years since they successfully killed anyone. If we're going to have all these theoretically perilous creatures around, we should at least get to alarm people with them. Do not throw anything at magpie-lark; it may attack more vigorously.
And then I came across this additional sign:
Hm, I thought. There are half a dozen of the big signs up, and they still feel the need to put up extra laminated sheets? "Travel in a group"? "Walk quickly away from the area. Do not run"? And the little picture in the corner, all security-camera watch-out-for-this-dangerous-criminal. Gosh. Still, I've never been swooped, I'm sure there's no need for alarm.
Then I walked up to the Festival Centre, where a tiny magpie-lark sat on top of a work of public art. Staring. And it flapped, and I jumped in fear and put my arms over my head and ducked.
No, it didn't attack me. Of course it didn't attack me. It was probably a baby itself rather than a protective parent, and even if not, it was clearly nowhere near a nest; you'd have to be a really dedicated magpie-lark to raise your young on the peak of an Otto Hajek environmental sculpture. The point of this story, such as it is, isn't that I was swooped at: it's that I feared, for a moment, that I would be, and then five seconds later I felt very sad and foreign and like I'd been away from Adelaide far too long and would never really get the hang of it again.
Fortunately, ten minutes later I saw a UK-style pigeon and was confused by how weird it looked without a proper Australian spike on its head. So that was okay.
I didn't find a sleeping pelican, but I did find a great big waking pelican as it landed clumsily on water, and then immediately started gliding on graceful patrol as if it would never ever splash. Also, a pile of five sleeping ducklings watched over by an alert parent duck; ten black swans twisting their necks around and digging in the grass; many parrots; more ducklings; starlings in a palm tree; and forty tiny brown sparrows in the dirt, flapping it around and blending in so well that they were barely visible except for the movement of their wings.
And then I came across a few copies of this sign:
Oh, Australia, I thought: you and your alarmist warnings. I understand it, I do; I too mention the deadly spiders and don't dwell on the fact that it's twenty years since they successfully killed anyone. If we're going to have all these theoretically perilous creatures around, we should at least get to alarm people with them. Do not throw anything at magpie-lark; it may attack more vigorously.
And then I came across this additional sign:
Hm, I thought. There are half a dozen of the big signs up, and they still feel the need to put up extra laminated sheets? "Travel in a group"? "Walk quickly away from the area. Do not run"? And the little picture in the corner, all security-camera watch-out-for-this-dangerous-criminal. Gosh. Still, I've never been swooped, I'm sure there's no need for alarm.
Then I walked up to the Festival Centre, where a tiny magpie-lark sat on top of a work of public art. Staring. And it flapped, and I jumped in fear and put my arms over my head and ducked.
No, it didn't attack me. Of course it didn't attack me. It was probably a baby itself rather than a protective parent, and even if not, it was clearly nowhere near a nest; you'd have to be a really dedicated magpie-lark to raise your young on the peak of an Otto Hajek environmental sculpture. The point of this story, such as it is, isn't that I was swooped at: it's that I feared, for a moment, that I would be, and then five seconds later I felt very sad and foreign and like I'd been away from Adelaide far too long and would never really get the hang of it again.
Fortunately, ten minutes later I saw a UK-style pigeon and was confused by how weird it looked without a proper Australian spike on its head. So that was okay.