
Lorikeets? You can hear them bark!
You know, people talk about the elegant cockatoos, the wise old owls… but let me tell you about the real characters of the Sydney sky. The Rainbow Lorikeets.
Brian, the tree lopper, he didn’t just show me the birds of Sydney. He introduced me to the neighbourhood.
And these guys? These lorikeets? They’re not birds. They’re flying dogs.
Seriously. Think about it.
First, the energy. They don’t arrive. They invade. One minute, the tree is quiet. The next, it’s a riot of green and blue and sun-yellow and that ridiculous slash of scarlet, like they’ve all been dipped in a manic paintbox. They don’t land so much as crash into the foliage, wings flapping, tails bashing about, a rolling, squawking avalanche of feathers.
And the noise. Oh, the noise. It’s not a song. It’s not a call. It’s a constant, urgent, indignant commentary. A metallic, rolling shriek. Scree-ark-ark-ark! Chik-a-chik-chik!
Brian would laugh, wiping sawdust from his ear. “Hear that?” he’d say, nodding up at the blooming gum. “That’s the ‘Get Off My Lawn!’ bark. That’s the ‘I Saw That Blossom First!’ bark. That’s the ‘The Sky Is Mine And Also This Branch Is Mine’ bark.”
[Menu]
The Kookaburra – They are Fast!
Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo
The Cautious Nature of a Rosella
The Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo Redefines “Fun”
King Parrots – They watch from a distance.
Lorikeets – Little Flying Dogs
So Many Native Birds in Sydney
Creating a Native Australian Garden
And he was right. They have all the territorial spite of a terrier, but with a jetpack. They bicker with each other over the best flower. They dive-bomb the poor, peace-loving king-parrots who just want a quiet seed. They scream at the magpies, who are twice their size and don’t take any nonsense. They even yell at the sky, just on principle.
But then… you watch them. Just for a moment, in a lull between arguments. You see one, hunched over a deep crimson bottlebrush, its little tongue a specialised brush, drinking the nectar with this look of pure, focused bliss. It’s a tiny, feathered hedonist. It lives for sugar and sunlight and the sheer joy of being a blindingly colourful nuisance.
And you realise… that’s their secret. That’s the magic. They’re not actually angry. They’re just… passionately, vocally, alive. Every moment is the best or worst moment ever, and the whole street needs to hear about it. They’re loyal, too—they mate for life, these little clowns, screaming their devotion from the rooftops.
So now, when that familiar screeching racket erupts outside my window, I don’t sigh. I smile. I picture Brian, looking up from his ropes with that knowing grin.
The flying dogs are on patrol. The lawn of the sky is being fiercely, beautifully, defended. And Sydney wouldn’t be Sydney without their brilliant, barking chorus.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainbow_lorikeet
