Thoughts on Lying in Bed Listening to a Lyrebird
By: Anne Harrison
Tags: Mindfulness, Nature Writing, Morning Thoughts, Musings, Writing

Thoughts on Lying in Bed Listening to a Lyrebird

Or another reason to stay in bed

Trees near the shack © A. Harrison

At first I didn’t notice. Our weekend shack is surrounded by forest, and each morning I wake to a cacophony of birdsong, from the twittering of wrens to the magical warbles of magpies and currawongs.

I once even woke to the sound of a kangaroo jumping onto our roof.

Less than an hour’s drive from home, our weekender sits surrounded by 100 acres of Australian bush. We have neither phone nor television to disturb us, and the closest mobile reception is a 10-minute drive away. The precarious electricity cable leading to the house is occasionally taken out by a passing kangaroo. It’s the perfect place to escape and recharge the soul. (We’re also lucky enough to have the Great Northern Trading Post five minutes away. Boasting the oldest continual liquor license in the colony outside of Sydney, it serves the likes of grilled spatchcock or steak with pommes frites, and free Wi-Fi.)

Our shack hiding in the bush © A. Harrison

Even late in spring a mist often fills the valley below the house. Of a morning I love to sit on the verandah, sipping a strong coffee as I overlook the clouds. Droplets of moisture swirl in the air, and I can hear the drip of water as it falls from the leaves. Birds dart by, and the trees are nothing but grey outlines. As the sun rises the mist burns away, revealing a glorious spring day. A perfect day, as they all are up here.

On this morning, however, I lay abed a while, the melody of birds a backdrop to sleepy thoughts. There are so many types of birds up here, with so many different calls, that it took a while for the perfect notes to fall into my consciousness. The sound of a whip bird, repeated three times, followed by a flourish; a pause, then it was all repeated again. Each note so perfect, so clear, rendering all the other birds amateurs in comparison.

The morning mist © A. Harrison

Lyrebirds are shy creatures — I have only spotted them twice (although I do have a german shepherd in tow as I walk the bush, which renders the journey not exactly quiet). They were both female superb lyrebirds — largish brown birds, tending to a coppery glint on the wing, with a body of deep grey. Perfect colours for blending into the bush. On each occasion the lyrebird darted into the undergrowth as soon as I spied her. I saw them in different parts of the valley, so I’m guessing there are quite a few up here.

It is the adult male who boasts the resplendent tail inverted over his body like a silver shower, and a voice of gold which carries for great distances. (Females also sing and mimic other birds, but their voice is less powerful.) Very territorial, it is during autumn and winter (the mating season) when their song intensifies and is most often heard, especially on a still, misty day. Their melodies carry over the valley and echo through the hills.

Aside from their own songs, lyrebirds are known for mimicking the calls of others. Their notes are perfect, producing melodies to shame the birds they copy. They even imitate human noises: a chainsaw starting, the sound of a motor, the crack of a whip. Songs are even learnt from one another, and taught to their young; there are stories of chainsaws being heard in the bush, years after all logging has finished, the noise passed down through the lyrebird generations.

Two rare bush elves © A. Harrison

Now the sun has risen. The soulful call of a black cockatoo falls from the air. This is one bird I’ve never heard a lyrebird impersonate, and I’m glad. Black cockatoos are completely different to their better known white cousins. Whereas white cockatoos tumble through the air in large crowds and often put on a circus display of aerobatics, the larger black cockatoo lumbers past, often solitary, occasionally in small groups, looking for all the world as if it has no right to fly, yet vanishing from sight with nothing but a slow flap of wings.

Although their cry is mournful, for me the sound as it falls from the air is quintessentially Australian. Whereas the white cockie squawks and can be trained to talk, the black cockatoo emits a soulful cry of despair, as if a lost soul has taken to the air in search of a home. Were a lyrebird to perfect this, it would bring me to tears.

Sharing my breakfast with me © A. Harrison

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