There is a carrot on the decking. It has been there since last night, testament to Cousin George’s caution overruling his appetite. He watched it for some hours, but eventually left without snavelling supper. Fair enough, really. Until a few months ago, there was a ferocious beast patrolling the area. Neville didn’t make it, and there was no carrot in the equation. Bad judgement, mostly, and defiance of the obvious risk. George may have been lurking, watching from the shadows; we will never know.
Still and all, the young wallabies are not allowed out of the pouch, yet. They are allowed to poke their noses out and graze a little, while their mothers fill their bellies, but not to venture onto the grass solo. It won’t be long, but for now, they are confined to quarters. As they grow bigger, it is more uncomfortable to contain them – they wriggle more. A lot more. Impatient mothers, impatient joeys, darkness and carrots. Quiet, safe; untrustworthy in the marsupial mind.
The shrike thrush, Brenda and Nolene, have been lying low for the last week. They are in a trance most of the day as their eggs begin to squeak. Nestlings are due any day now, and the demand for cheese ‘worms’ will no doubt be high when they arrive. Nigel has a harried air and no time to ponder previous indiscretions or the potential choices two clutches of offspring at once will require.
The lull in activity allows the honeyeaters unlimited scope to strip the felted possums of soft woollen lining for their nests. They hang in the tree, more naked each day, their fur vanishing to nestle hatching eggs. Passing visitors are shocked and disconcerted when they chance upon the denuded possums figures without warning. Perhaps a sign would help.
