It is a bleak winter morning. The ravens are tapping, rapping on the wooden table. Their black plumage glistens in the sunlight. Their long floppy throat feathers create a shaggy appearance as if they have just woken up.
With gurgling voices they produce a croar-croar sound which makes it seem like they are being strangled. They are waking me up.
I step out onto the deck and smile at my two raven friends. Their feathers flutter and they demand the food from my hand.
I barely get to mutter a few of my improvised bird calls when other friends fly in. A glossy black and white blur accompanied by flute like caroling signals the arrival of the magpies.
Harsh piping calls, grey black bodies and yellow bills swoop in heralding the entrance of a family of noisy miners an aggressive companion bird to both the magpie and raven.
I feed the birds most days and in return the crows purposefully leave gifts such as rocks, bones and twigs. They’re very intelligent and often follow me when I walk down the street to the café.
My friends say they are taking advantage of me, using me as an easy meal ticket, but I prefer to think I’m helping them survive and anyway they give me great pleasure.
I sit on a cushioned seat reading my book. The ravens soar off to enjoy some playful flight tumbling and rolling as the magpies and miners finish off the scraps.