There’s a rosella in the orchard. A single rosella. The orchard is netted, and doubles as the chook pen, but the rosella is on the wrong side of the net. At least, I think he’s the wrong side. I’m not sure of the rosella’s opinion.
I open the door wide and try to chase him out. He — I know he’s a he; the bright red of his belly and neck distinguishes him so. The females are mottled red on the belly with more green on the head and neck. ‘My’ rosella is male; a male Western rosella. He flies around among the fruit trees, around and around the enclosure. He lands high on the netting of the roof, claws in the mesh, and looks down at me. I wave my arm and he flies again. He lands in a tree near the open gate. “Go on, out you go.” He hesitates. Jumps from one branch to another. I lose sight of him in the pear tree. Maybe he went out! I walk closer and peer into the leaves. I can’t see him. Then he breaks cover and is swooping around again. “Damn!” He lands in the quince and again I lose him, but this time I know he is still in the orchard. I hit the branches of the quince and the rosella takes off again.
This goes on for minutes. Many minutes. It’s me that gets sick of it, not the rosella.
I leave the gate open wide and put a bit of grain down on the ground outside, hoping the rosella will come out to eat it. My fear is that other birds will go into the orchard while the gate is open. I take the risk and walk away.
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