Afternoon Crickets

– Manfred

The sun melted lower in the sky and the heat lost the worst of its harsh summery bite. The wind whispered through the bushes, stirring the gentle scents of grevillea and bottlebrush and red-flowering gum. Manfred never wanted to move again, never wanted the day to end, but the magpies were gathering. Anyway, if he escorted Amelia home now, there’d still be time for her to offer him a late afternoon refreshment, and maybe she’d even drop a hint or two about her choice.

“Shall we head home?” he asked her. He took her wing in his own and helped her up. The way she fluttered her eyelids and tried not to blush was endearing.

“Oh, Manfred,” she said. “I want this day to last forever. Thank you for making it so wonderful.”

“I aim to please,” he told her in a voice he knew sounded like rubbed silk.

“We’ll have to come here again.” She wiggled her toes in the grass. “It’s so lush. I feel like I could die here and know my life was fulfilled.”

“It’s just a pity about the apes,” Manfred said. “They’re everywhere here. Like a plague of locusts, except you can’t even eat them.”

Amelia glanced around. “You know, I almost think their furious wanderings are more than just random patterns. It’s almost like…like they have a purpose, you know?”

Manfred snorted with laughter until he saw the serious look on her beak. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were joking.”

“Well,” she readied herself for takeoff, “I kind of am. But all that stuff they build, you know?”

“Ants build big, too, and nobird’s accusing them of world domination.”

“Please! I’m not avimorphising. But look at how the apes travel in columns, and circle each other at crossroads. Surely that’s a sign of intelligence?”

“Ants do that too. And before you say it, they also have music,” Manfred said as they took off. “And art, and language.”

They flew the short distance to her tree in silence and Manfred wondered if Amelia was somehow offended. And whether he was offended at her offence. But when they landed on her branch she offered him a drink.

“I’ll see if we’ve got any worms, too,” she added, before racing inside.

Manfred waved to her wattlebird neighbour. “Evening, Ms Blackthroat.”

“Evening, young cockling,” she replied. “I hope you don’t have far to fly. It’s getting quite late you know.”

“Not far at all, Ms Blackthroat,” he lied smoothly. “But if it’s alright with you, Amelia has just offered me a drink right here in full view on this comfortable branch.”

Amelia raced back outside with a box in her wings. “Manfred, was this you?”

Manfred looked at the box, and, just for a tempting second, considered lying. “No,” he admitted after a few more very long seconds. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Then it must be from mum.” She shook it. “It’s buzzing.” She opened it, tearing at the box and tossing it to one side. “Ooooh, crickets! And they’re so fresh they’re still twitching!” She popped one into her beak. “Mmmmmm what kind of pollen is this?” she asked, popping one into Manfred’s beak with a delicate, tickling touch.

“It’s yellowbox,” Manfred exclaimed. “And it’s delicious.”

“At this time of year? Mum must really approve of you.”

“I approve of her too, I must say!”

Under the watchful eye of Ms Blackthroat, the pair munched another cricket each.

“So I was wondering,” Manfred said, in what he hoped was a casual tone. “Have you made any decisions about—”

“Let me stop you right there,” Amelia said. “Because I will not tolerate any questions about my choice.”

“Oh,” Manfred backed as delicately as he could. “I’m not asking what you chose, I’m just wondering if you have. Because if you haven’t, then let me tell you about the the way I’ve been brought up. About the kind of life I could give my mate and our eggs.”

“Oh Manfred!” Amelia reached for another cricket. “That doesn’t sound sleazy at all!”

Manfred felt his wings rising.

Amelia smiled at him. “Ok, there is one thing I want to know. It has to do with Miles and the duet he sang with Richard…”

Manfred’s wings fell back to his sides and he felt himself slump.

“…he said ‘my mother has the best nest-builders’. What does that mean?”

Manfred felt his confidence rise again. “We don’t build our own nests in the West.” Amelia cocked her head to one side so he continued. “We hire other birds to do it. We have all kinds of birds specializing in all kinds of skills. When it comes down to building one for you—hypothetically of course—I’d just tell them where we’d like it built, give them the room size, layout, aspect and the like; and they’ll do the rest.”

“But that…that must be so expensive. Where does your mother make her money?”

“Well,” he couldn’t help showing off, “I’m not a candidate for the Troodon Award for nothing, you know.” But Amelia cocked her head even further and Manfred wondered if he’d gone too far. He reached for the last cricket just as the magpies sounded call to quarters. He jumped at the chance to change the subject.

“Thanks for a wonderful afternoon,” he said, brushing Amelia’s flight feathers with his own in farewell. “Especially the crickets.”