Today it’s time to feed my three black bears again.

Like most species, there exists a rhythm in who gets fed first. It’s always Papa Bear. You fill him up. No one else gets anything, they just sit there waiting for their turn to be Papa Bear. All the food scraps go into Papa Bear’s mouth. Look at them standing there: Immobile, stuck to the ground against the warm west wall of the house.

               What an odd sight, three nursery rhyme bears,
               motionless, trapped in a quiet backyard.
               Waiting for food without any cares,
               all the food scraps I've kept to discard.

All three are charcoal-coloured, truncated plastic pyramids. Each has a lid at the top which I can remove dying vegetables and withered lettuce leaves down its gullet. At the bottom, a sliding trapdoor allows me to remove the composting remnants. If I call the top a “mouth” what is that trapdoor?

When Papa is full, his lid marked “in” moves to the almost empty Baby Bear. Mama’s “Working” lid moves over to Papa. Mama, old or new, seems to do all the work. Baby’s “out” moves to Mama. Each one is transformed and takes on a new role, but every time I take out the scraps, there’s Papa Bear, grinning at me.

A juvenile magpie sits focused on a trellis, a green affair of cross-nailed wooden slats, about a meter away. “Cool-oodle-oodle-oodle” he carols at me. Half his feathers match the black bears, half a soft, down grey. Someone has picked him up, plumped him like a plush pillow, then settled him onto a perch where he can look down, drizzled on, but still interested. he watches with inquisitive, hungry, amber-brown eyes. Mum Magpie maintains her respectful distance. I’ve known her since she was her son’s age, this is at least her third clutch. I don’t see her other two, the son’s sisters. I expect they are waiting for lunch to appear.

               Wear a thick hat when you walk down the street.
               I have an Akubra, thick leather, and broad
               brim that keeps off the sun and the heat
               that stops all the swooping and me being clawed.

Most Aussies have a love-hate relationship with their magpies. When the rain overflows the skies, Mum and her 3 three outsized chicks sit on my back verandah railing, a mellifluous chorus serenading each other. Black and white yodellers on mission-red enameled steel. Occasionally I will attempt to imitate them -if they get louder in support or to drown me out is a mystery.

But come the springtime, our love is put to the test. From high in the canopy, they dive bomb from behind. If you can look them in the eye, they won't attack, but never turn your back. For six weeks, while the chicks hatch and grow, they turn into territorial terrorists, Frankenstein’s flighty monsters. I wear my hat when I walk to the shops but I haven’t been bombed for thirty years.

Into Papa’s mouth, I pour the past week's offerings. I cover them with shredded brown cardboard, overlaid by a layer of decaying leaves, then gather old grass clips to strew over the top. Each strata is separated by a shovel full of rich compost, taken from Baby’s bottom trapdoor. Crumbly black compost, replete with worms.

               Black beetle curl grubs feed on the roots
               of carrots and broad beans and lawn neatly mown
               Too many in garden beds wither the shoots.
               These are one crop I don’t want to have grown.

Each time I spread the compost layer I check it for beetle larvae. Some are from harmless Scarabs or colourful Christmas beetles. Others are invasive pests. I refuse to spray them. Instead, I pick out the ones I find, knowing that many more will be missed. Today I toss them toward Master Magpie, who drops to pick them up and swallow them down. Then he returns to his cross-eyed perch, hoping for the next course.

Mum continues to watch, seemingly satisfied with her serf’s toil. No dive bombing this year for her faithful servant.

               I still wear my hat to keep off the sun
               The maggies know who has buttered their bun.
 

                                   1 June 2024