Wednesday, 18 January 2017

So peaceful...or not

There is a misconception that if you live on a farm, in a regional or country area, you live in peace and quiet.  Not the case if you've got a few acres with a lot of beaks, hoofs and mouths to feed.  As the summer day ends we often take a cold glass of something out into the back paddock to sit and feel the serenity, as they say.  Over time I've tuned in to the many sounds around the place that include the various chook and baby chick noises, like happy sounds versus the oh shit I've fallen in the water bowl again and can't get out sound.  The goats have the most astute hearing of all.  They can hear the back door open and know our cars.  Their call is about, let me out of here and on my tether so I can eat new stuff and not have to listen to chicken's gossiping all the time.  The sound of ducks from the back paddock marching over usually happens about dusk.  They are keen to see if the kind lady with the chicken feed might show up again, maybe tomorrow night.  And everywhere you walk in the garden you are followed by squawking and swooping noisy minor birds telling us that Minnie is on the move.  They harass her terribly and one day she'll reach up and swipe one just because she can. Or she could, if she lost a few kilos.  There was a strange squawk last night from the top of the macrocarpa tree.  It's over over 100 years old and the top is pretty high. Sitting at the very peak was a black cockatoo.  You rarely see one on it's own.  They are usually in pairs.  As it called out for its partner from the top branch, every chicken sat up alert.  Mother chickens called their chicks in and sat on them quietly until it moved on.  The peace was soon interrupted again with a stray sheep arriving in next door's paddock.  Our own four highly privileged wander over for a chat and when they establish, they can't do much to help, wander off.  The lost sheep keeps calling and a few texts get sent around the area, is it yours?  As the sun begins to descend a bright red, blue and yellow Rosella swoops through and shows off his colours in the berry tree.  I call it the berry tree because it grows tiny red berries and vomits them all over the courtyard for months.  I wish the birds would eat it to death, but no such luck.  Time to call it a night and we close the kitchen door - for a bit of peace and quiet.

No comments:

Post a Comment