The Perch, The Pipe, and The Pink Monkey
From my branch, exactly two metres from the kitchen window, I have the best seat in the house.
The humans think they’re subtle, but they’re not. They never are. They crash about in their boxes of wood and glass, making noises that scare the finches and upset the butcherbirds. Today, however, the entertainment is exceptional.
I am a Crimson Rosella. I do not screech like the lorikeets, nor do I carry on like those buffoonish Galahs who think the world revolves around their pink chests. I observe. I wait. I calculate. And from my perch on the old gum tree, I have been watching the two males inside the glass box for the past hour. They are fascinating creatures, in the way that a car crash is fascinating.
Let me describe them for you.
The first one is the older male. Grey around the temples. Slow movements. His hands know things—I can tell by the way he approached the water-spitting monster under the basin. He did not flinch. He did not shout. He simply knelt, observed, and began his work. This one has the patience of a Kookaburra waiting for a snake. I respect him.
[Menu]
The second male is… how do I put this delicately? He is a mountain. A very loud, very pink-faced mountain with no feathers on his head. He paces. He waves his arms. He makes sounds that are not birdsong but something far uglier—sharp, guttural barks that seem to come from somewhere deep in his belly. The grey-headed one calls him “Klaus,” which I have decided is a sound of pity.
From my position, I can see everything. The lorikeets—those garish, attention-seeking nuisances—have descended upon the feeder like a pack of screaming children. They are fighting over an apple core, as they always do. The Galah has arrived on the fence, looking as stupid as ever, puffing out his chest as if anyone is impressed. Spoiled milk is more impressive than a Galah.
But the show is inside.
The loud one—Klaus—is pacing again. He keeps making a sound: “Schnell Abnehmen.” He says it over and over. I have heard many human sounds in my time—the whir of the lawn mower, the crackle of the barbecue, the shrieks of their fledglings—but this is new. It seems to cause him great distress. His face turns redder each time he says it.
The grey-headed one—David, the humans call him—ignores this completely. He is focused on the water-spitter. His hands move with the precision of a honeyeater extracting nectar. Click. Twist. Tighten. He does not rush. He does not panic. He knows that water, like the wind, will do what it wants if you don’t respect it.
The loud one is now talking about something called “Stoffwechsel.” He points at his own belly, then at the lorikeets, then back at his belly. I tilt my head. Is he unwell? Is this a mating display? I watch closely. His arms wave like the branches of a tree in a cyclone. His voice rises and falls like a panicked magpie. No, this is not mating. This is something else. This is suffering.
David, to his credit, simply grunts and continues working. He glances out the window at me. Our eyes meet. He nods—just slightly. I return the gesture with a slow blink. We understand each other, this grey-headed human and I. We are the quiet ones. The watchers. The ones who know that rushing is for flies and fools.
Klaus, meanwhile, has not stopped. He is now gesturing at the lorikeets again, calling them “aggressive” and comparing them to something called a “spin class.” I do not know what this is, but it sounds exhausting. The lorikeets, oblivious, continue their screeching. Typical. They have the attention spans of mosquitoes.
Then comes the moment that changes everything.
Klaus looks at me. Really looks. His eyes widen. He points a thick, fleshy finger at my branch. I do not move. I am a Rosella. I do not flee from pointing. I hold my ground, as I have held it through storms, through heatwaves, through the clumsy flights of butcherbirds who think they can catch me.
David follows his gaze. He smiles—a rare thing, I notice. He says something about my posture. About how I am “composed.” About how I “hold position.”
Klaus stops pacing. For the first time in an hour, he is still. He stares at me with something approaching wonder.
“The isometric hold,” he whispers. “Die Planke.”
I have no idea what this means, but I feel a sudden, unearned importance. The Galah on the fence honks, jealous as always. The lorikeets squabble louder, trying to reclaim attention. But I remain still. Let them flap. Let them fight. I am the one they are looking at now.
David finishes his work. He stands, tests the water-spitter, and declares it healed. He speaks to Klaus about “long games” and “staying power.” He gestures toward me again. He says I will outlast the lorikeets because I conserve my energy. This is true. I do not waste my breath on arguments over apples. I save it for the songs that matter, for the warnings that need to be heard.
Klaus is silent. This is remarkable. I have not witnessed silence from this creature since he arrived. He stares at me, then at the Galah, then back at me.
“Mein Gott,” he says. “The Galah is the Fitness-Influencer.”
The Galah, bless his empty head, does not understand the insult. He preens. I roll my eyes, which is difficult for a bird but I manage.
David packs his things and walks toward the door. He pauses at the gate and says something that makes Klaus nod sharply and finally—finally—stop shouting. The box goes quiet.
The afternoon air returns to its proper state. I can hear the gentle rustle of the leaves, the distant call of a magpie, the contented hum of the world doing exactly what it should do.
Klaus appears at the window. He is not shouting. He is watching me. He has a look on his face that I can only describe as… peaceful. He has learned something today, I think. Whether it will stick is another matter. Humans are forgetful creatures. They learn, they forget, they shout, they repeat.
But for now, he is still. He is watching. He is observing.
Just like me.
I shift my weight on the branch, fluff my chest feathers, and let out a soft, satisfied chirp. The lorikeets have finally exhausted themselves and are dozing on the feeder. The Galah has fallen off the fence—again—and is waddling away in shame. The grey-headed human, David, has disappeared down the path.
And I remain.
I am the Crimson Rosella. I am two metres from the window. I am the one who watches, who waits, who knows that the loudest voices are rarely the wisest.
The pink mountain is quiet now. He is learning to hold.
Perhaps there is hope for these strange, featherless creatures after all.
For now, though, the sun is warm, the breeze is gentle, and there is a particularly juicy berry on the branch above me. I have watched enough for one afternoon. It is time to eat, to rest, and to remind myself that I am not a lorikeet, not a Galah, not a human.
I am a Rosella. And that is more than enough.