As much as we detest the idea of rumour- mongering and idle gossip, we have to suggest there’s something ghostly amiss in Radial Two.

“The noise was very loud,” a Spangled Drongo from Bushland Six told us. Third-Black-Covert- Feather-On-The-Dominant-Wing-Is-Bent, or ‘Third Black’ as she is locally known, told us how an eerie and unexplainable noise woke up her brood this morning.

“It was about an hour before Dawn Chorus,” the Drongo told us, “and my youngest woke up peeping, saying she was ‘dying of hungerment’ so I was chewing up some cold worms for her.”

The sound she heard next can only be described as blood-curdling.

“It was blood-curdling,” Third Black said. “Like a long, drawn-out howl. Sort of like ‘hhhhhheeeeeelllllppppp’. Next I knew all my nestlings were awake and screeching. I had my wings full trying to quiet them down before the neighbours complained.”

Third Black wasn’t the only one to hear the ghostly wail. Perfectly-Straight-Flight-Feathers- With-One-Bent-Covert had just finished her work as a night-taxi. “Those pre-dawn hours are the only time I can get any sleep,” Perfectly Bent said. “Between my morning job teaching aerodynamics, my afternoon job as a nest- designer, and my night job as a taxi, I only get about four hours sleep in any one diurnal. It was ruined.”

According to Perfectly Bent, the noise sounded more like ‘mmmmmmmmeeeeeeeee’ but was equally sleep-shattering.

Even Colony Three, the Noisy Miner troupe in Bushland Seven, heard it over their own background cacophony; although they disagree entirely about its harmonics.

“It sounded like ‘aaaaaaaaggggggghhhhhh’, said E3H1F1, while her younger sister, E1H2F3, said ‘no, I think it was more like ‘aiaiaiaiaiai’. Aslo my egg was laid first, so I’m actually the oldest.”

But don’t just take their words for it—even Tail- Feather-Colours-Inverted-Like-A-Currawong’s, the magpie better, if not more confusingly, known as Black Currawong, heard the ghostly sound.

“I was waiting for First Light. Everyone relies on me to get the timing right, as you know. Like I always say, accuracy underpins society. We were still eighteen seconds away from my planned warble when I heard the whistling sound of something dropping out of the sky at speed, accompanied by a high-pitched screaming, and followed by a thump and a groan.

“The next thing I knew, every bird and her tick was suddenly chorusing at the tops of their unidirectional lungs. Dawn Chorus was ruined. I might never live this down.”

The Sergeant-in-Charge at Raven Force, Honestly, had nothing enlightening to say on the matter.

Anyone who has any further information about this ghost should contact us at the Connection. And anyone interested in the full interview with Black Currawong, including her speeches on accuracy, is welcome to attend her free daily lectures in The Big Green.

You know how it goes. We’d been at the Tick and Cow for a cuppla quiet ones when things got rowdy. Too rowdy for the likes of us so we headed off home. Of course we had to stop for another quiet one or two at the Rusty Feather on the way, but I imagine you’ve heard all about that!

Anyway, there we were, flying over The Big Green, when suddenly I spotted absolutely no-one there – unless you count fruit bats that is – so, given that some of the flock were thinking their nectar’d been spiked, I suggested we stop for bit of a rest.

It was Felix who first spotted the ball – the sloppiest, wettest, stinkiest, most canine- chewed thing that none of us wanted to touch. Of course we had to play cricket, I mean, it’d be unAustralian not to, but who was gonna have to bowl?

We decided on rock-leaf-claw and Felix lost – after all he was the newcomer, wink wink nod nod. The next thing we knew he’d picked the disgusting thing up! And he was already pacing out a run-up! How he kept dinner down touching that thing I’ll never know; I was already planning to miss any catches that came my way.

Anyway, little did we know it was the run-up to end all run-ups. You’ve heard of hitting the ball outta the park? Well, Felix made his run-up mark outta the park! He was gone for ages!

We just sat around, grooming, squawking, chewing on lice, and general what-have-you, until finally, just when we’d finished off our takeaways and dawn was about to chorus, we hear him coming back, wheezing and heaving, sounding a death-rattle worse than a chook on protein pellets.

So we all get up and take our places – Olly at the crease, Chloe at the wicket – but the silly bugger still didn’t stop! He just went right on down the pitch like he couldn’t let go of the ball. Maybe he’d got rabies. Come to think of it, he was probably glued to it with dog spit.

We all laughed at him, as you do. Manfred was shouting ‘drop it’ and you can imagine how loud Olly got. But he never stopped. We yelled at him to come back but he never did – we waited a while, but daylight was hurting and the canines were taking their apes for walks. What else could we do?

Funniest thing though, we saw him at lunch and he acted like it never happened. ‘Cricket? he goes, ‘I’ve never played the game in my life.’