Stories from my Sketchbook . . .
At this time of the year one of the very first sounds I hear when I wake in the morning is the screech of a black cockatoo. (There is no not-hearing it actually. I have read that a cockatoo screech can reach up to 135 decibels. Multiply that by a a flock of about 30-40 birds and that will give you some idea . . . )
So used am I to hearing them now that, on a normal working day at least, the early morning cacophany barely registers. I am hardly on my feet before my head takes over and immediately starts reeling off lists of chores and jobs that I need to get done that day. A bunch of noisy birds don’t usually get much of a look in . . .
This morning the girls and I were out and about even before the birds were up. We were walking along the sea wall just as it was starting to come light, and it was cool and calm and quiet. Peaceful. At least until the silence was pierced by one lone cockatoo announcing she was now awake, thank you very much, and everyone else should be too!
Within seconds there was a answering screech from a nearby tree, and then another and another until the air was filled with their raucous din. I stood and watched as the whole flock slowly began to lift, one by one, from the trees and into the air, wheeling in lazy circles and stretching their wings (and their lungs) as they made their way across the river.
Pretty spectacular. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before, I have. But this morning I paid attention, really paid attention—to their colour, their sound, their joyful silliness . . .
I need to remember this morning. Next week, when I am back at work after my lovely holiday, before my head becomes full of things I have to do and places I have to be, I am going to remind myself to take a moment each morning to just think about how lucky I am to live in a place where I get to see (and yes, even hear) gorgeous black cockatoos every morning.
Surely my working day can wait just a couple more minutes for that . . .
Apparently there are no longer any fish to be caught in the Camden Haven River—at least, according to every fisherman I have spoken to over the past week . . .
Sally says . . . eat, sleep, work, read, play, draw, bark . . . 