Butcher Bird

It’s the end of November. The weather is warming. The land is dry. The rain that fell over winter is long gone, evaporated by warm days and dry winds. The grass and bush feel crisp underfoot. Most shrubs have reached the end of their flowering period and are preparing for summer. An endless cycle — the comings and goings of the seasons.

I notice the wind picking up. It feels like a storm is brewing out west. The birds are busy today; kookaburras laughing high up in the trees, gang-gang cockatoos flying erratically overhead. And then I hear the anxious call of the butcher bird. Not its beautiful early-morning melodic song — but a sharper, urgent warning. A signal that something is up.

And yes, it’s a warm day, so of course they’re out. But not a snake this time. The reason for the butcher bird’s distress is the presence of a large goanna, prowling for food. The bird fearlessly dive-bombs the goanna, persuading it to move on, protecting its nearby nest. Goannas raid nests, devouring eggs or whatever they find. So the butcher bird must remain alert. It always is. It naturally is. Without this alertness, it — or its young — wouldn’t last long. Being aware and present is its natural state of being.

The butcher bird is always alert, always present. And watching it, my mind begins to drift. I wonder if it ever has a day where it feels grumpy, or annoyed with the world around it. And tonight — will it ruminate endlessly over what happened with the goanna today? I don’t think so. It won’t replay the moment, analyse it, or carry it forward.

Does it ever resist the rain, the wind, or the sunshine? Does it complain, or blame, have demands, or expecations? In other words, does it ever argue with life?

The butcher bird just is.

And as I watch it, I notice how rarely we allow ourselves to live this way — so often pulled away from what is actually happening, caught in anticipation, tension, drama or story. This bird isn’t trying to control the moment. It meets it. Fully. Clearly. Without resistance.

And now, as I write this, it’s singing its beautiful song again. The danger has passed and it has decided to sing once more. Why? Who knows. Because it feels like it? Because it enjoys it? Why am I even looking for a reason?

And in its quiet way, it reminds me of something simple about how to be.