They were rosellas. No doubt about it—dead ringers of those on the sauce bottle. The brilliant birds appeared in our yard a few weeks ago, paired off for the breeding season. But surely it’s still winter, the sap has yet to rise, avian ardour must lie dormant. Yet there they were, a devoted couple, clearly house-hunting for a nesting place where, in due season, they would produce and hatch their eggs.
We had a gap in the fascia of the house, rotted timber removed in anticipation of having a tradie make repairs. It was not really a rosella-sized gap, but with a bit of steady beak-work it could be made so. And it was. The birds took to their work over a period of days, littering the deck with woodchips until the hole was large enough for entry. Voilà, a home!
Not so fast, you feathered squatters! We’d love to have the beautiful birds nest in our yard, but on our terms, so I covered the hole and set about making a bird box to be installed on a tree. This proved a monumental failure—I must have misread dimensions suggested online as it appeared to be a standing-room only habitation. My granddaughter wrinkled her nose and declared it ‘far too small, grandpa.’ But I was saved: a bird-loving friend, hearing of my failed project, donated a surplus bird box of adequate dimensions and it was duly installed on the tree.
The final chapter saw our rosellas being coaxed to turn their attention to this purpose-designed accommodation. It took some doing; they remained preoccupied with attempting to regain entry to the hole in the fascia. Finally, an apple placed near the entrance of the newly installed bird box opened their eyes to this desirable real estate. So now they are in residence. And we await what Spring will bring.
Postscript: Spring has sprung and a listening ear near the bird box reveals that our residents now have a twittering family. We’ve been told that the family will simply vacate the box, no farewells or thank-yous, when the hatchlings can fly.
Maybe the parents will return next year and raise another family.
