Early on Christmas Eve day I was in the driveway about to drop my son off at his grandmother’s and was vaguely aware of an anomaly in the soundscape that surrounded me. I was too preoccupied to stand around and search for who was making the sound, but around lunch time I arrived home and noticed the sound again. This time, with my mind no longer swimming with things I had to do, I stood with my son by the fence of the paddock across the road listening to the out of place sound. I could hear an occasional bzzrrrt from the large gum trees in the paddock, though after a little while I could no longer hear the call nor see the animal making it. We went back inside, and I did a few jobs around the house and put my son down for a sleep.
I suspected the orator of this new call might be a Restless Flycatcher, though I was more familiar with the scissor-grinder call they use while foraging. Flycatchers are fabled in my mind, a rare, beautiful bird gleaming with a dark blue-black iridescent sheen, and having slightly anomalous features like a wide-based bill and little crest which deviate from the norms of similar sized birds in the area. The flycatchers have suffered greatly from habitat clearance in the Adelaide Hills and are now Endangered in the region. In half a dozen years birding in the hills, I’ve only seen them a few times in one small reserve containing remnant native vegetation. To add to their intrigue, while doing my undergraduate degree, I remember one of the lectures suggesting the scissor-grinder call caused spiders and possibly other tasty morsels to flee from cover so the flycatcher could swoop down and collect them.
Jobs complete and attention undivided, I went back out into the driveway to search again for the mystery singer. To my surprise I could hear the bzzrrrting and the scissor-grinder call being emitted from a tree not 15 meters from me! I bobbed and ducked with my binoculars until I got a clear view of the luminous flycatcher. Having got a good view, I raced inside to get my camera. I couldn’t let a momentous event such as a flycatcher at home be left to my word and memories without conclusive proof. Camera in hand, back into the hallway, I flicked the camera on. Damn, no memory card. Back to the study for the card, then back outside. Mercifully, the flycatcher had not moved far. It was perching in young river red gums and hawking above the dry yellow grass projecting the scissor-grinder call down to the ground with an open beak. I snapped a few photos. Then, moments later, an indignant Willy Wagtail swooped in and chased the newcomer away. I was ecstatic at having seen the flycatcher and a warm glow sat within me, though a little resentful of the Willy Wagtail for chasing it away. However, what more could be expected from the original angry bird, one with the grit to assault a hawk much larger than themselves that would surely eat them if it got the chance.
The next morning, Christmas morning, I awoke to a burgeoning of bird song. Among the peeps of honeyeaters, the lonesome treecreeper and the chatter of parrots, was the incongruity of the bzzrrrting flycatcher. I went outside to find the sunlight as brilliant beams of soft lemon flowing lowly across the hills igniting the dry grass. Very nearby the flycatcher dipped and swooped between our yard and the paddock across the road, perching briefly and illuminated by the gentle sunlight, its satin shimmering. The moment was again shattered by the local residents, White-plumed Honeyeaters who vehemently chased the flycatcher away. Although I’ve seen the white-plumes chase other birds away, often New Holland Honeyeaters, these chases seem less sustained or primed with emotion. Why the flycatcher is so disliked by the other local birds I do not know. This matter will remain a mystery to me and a subject of my mere speculation, though, perhaps not to the honeyeaters and wagtail.
A gentle positive warmth from seeing this lovely creature lingered in my soul for more than a day, a feeling that I lapped up. I am so lucky to have had this encounter, and I hope that someday the flycatchers will return.