It’s easy to see when the predominant native grass in my `lawn’ is seeding, because the yard is taken over by a purposeful band of crimson rosellas.
They proceed en masse up the slope, through thin grass as tall as themselves.
Standing on one leg, each daintily grasps a seedhead stem with the claw of the other, bends it towards their beak and neatly strips it, rather as we’d munch sideways along a cob of corn.
The harvest appears organised and amicable: no crossing of territory, no debate about personal patches, not one squawk of protest.
It is a silent harvest, though highly visible, as the richness of their red and blue plumage turns my plain yard into a moving tapestry.