A bit of wet weather — and all hell broke loose in the forest around me.
My most raucous neighbours swooped in, a whole pack of them, loud and restless.
There were perhaps eight Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoos, swapping trees, snapping twigs, screeching across the clearing at full unmusical volume.
As they barely stayed still for a minute and they like the uppermost branches, they were hard to locate, let alone snap, with the zoomed camera lens.
When they take off they look awkward, stiff-winged flapping like a kid in a superman cape, but they fly unerringly between the dense tree canopy.
I never know why they come and for such short times, nor what they are saying so loudly and incessantly in their rusty voices. But their sudden appearance is always a drama — a grand entrance and exit around a brief but impressive one-act performance.