Author: Erik Ford

Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo

For three heartbeats, nothing happened. The kookaburra remained a statue, its dark eye fixed on the offering. The world seemed to hold its breath. Then, physics changed.

There was no tentative flutter, no cautious hop from branch to branch. The bird simply unleashed itself. It was a feathered torpedo, a bolt of brown, white, and blue fired from a silent cannon. Its wings, a blur of purpose, made a single, powerful whump as they drove the body forward in a dead-straight, ruthlessly efficient line. It didn’t soar; it zoomed. There was no curve, no arc of approach, no last-minute adjustment of brakes.

It was a snatch-and-grab executed with military precision. One second the sausage was in Brian’s fingers, the next there was a sudden, startling vacuum of air, a faint swish, and it was gone. The kookaburra’s beak, that formidable pickaxe, had plucked the morsel with impossible delicacy and force all at once. Not a single knuckle was grazed.

And then it was over. The bird didn’t land. It didn’t pause to gloat. In one seamless, continuous motion, it completed its intercept, curved upwards with a few mighty wingbeats, and powered straight back to its original perch, the prize clamped securely. It gave a few satisfied, muffled chuckles, swallowed the sausage in one triumphant gulp, and resumed its regal survey of the kingdom, as if the whole explosive interlude had been a minor, albeit pleasing, administrative task.

Brian stood frozen, arm still outstretched, fingers now empty. For a moment, he just stared at his hand, then at the bird. And then it came: the biggest, most unguarded grin I had ever seen on his weathered face. It wasn’t just a smile; it was a beacon of pure, unadulterated delight. His eyes crinkled shut, and a booming, joyful laugh erupted from him, echoing the kookaburra’s own.

“Did you SEE that?!” he whooped, turning to me. “No brakes! Absolutely no brakes! He just… committed!”

He was practically giddy, a child who’d just witnessed magic. All his professional knowledge, his years of cataloguing bird behaviours—the caution of the rosella, the cunning of the corella, the chaos of the cockatoo—melted away in the face of this raw, ballistic audacity.

“That,” he said, shaking his head in awe, still beaming, “is a predator. A proper, honest-to-goodness predator. We forget, with all their laughing. They’re kingfishers! That beak isn’t for singing. It’s for whacking snakes and mice and… well, for intercepting flying snags, apparently.”

He packed the rest of his gear with that grin still plastered on his face, chuckling to himself. The encounter had gifted him something rare: a pure, unscripted moment of wildness. It wasn’t a careful observation or a lesson in adaptation. It was a demonstration of sheer, fearless capability. The kookaburra hadn’t been tamed or coaxed; it had assessed a risky opportunity, calculated the trajectory, and seized it with breathtaking confidence, reminding the tree lopper—and me—that for all our fences and lawns, we are still living in their world, governed by older, sharper laws.

Long after Brian left, the kookaburra remained on its branch, occasionally letting out a soft chuckle. I could almost swear it was laughing with him, sharing the private joke of the sausage heist. And every time I hear that raucous chorus now, I don’t just hear a symbol of the bush. I see a blue-and-brown blur against the sky, no brakes, and the biggest, most brilliant grin on a man who thought he knew all the surprises the trees could hold.

Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo

The Ghost in the Grass: On Corellas and the Quiet Genius of the Everyday

The revelation always came in the quiet moments. Brian the tree lopper had a way of waiting for the loud drama to subside—the lorikeets’ breakfast riot, the cockatoos’ screeching fly-past—before pointing out the subtler masterpiece. It happened on a still, late afternoon, the air thick with the sweet, green scent of freshly mown grass. I was admiring the neat stripes on the lawn when Brian, leaning against his truck with a worn-out sigh, gave a slow, deliberate nod towards the far corner.

“See that one?” he asked, his voice low. “The white one, fossicking through the clippings. You know that’s a type of cockatoo, right?”

I didn’t. I confessed I’d always just called them “those little birds that you see all over the place,” if I’d named them at all. They were background birds, less imposing than their sulphur-crested cousins, more common than a black cockatoo. They were, in my ignorance, just… there.

A slow, knowing smile spread across Brian’s sawdust-flecked face. He’d found another student for his unofficial university of the suburbs. “That,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers, “is a Little Corella. And if you think the big fellas are smart, you’d better sit down for this.”

He began not with facts, but with observation. He told me to watch its method. It wasn’t pecking randomly. It was using its slightly shorter, blunter beak like a precision tool, probing the soil exposed by the mower, delicately turning over clumps. “See how it’s using its left foot to hold down that big bit of root? Tool use. Clever,” he murmured. This, he explained, was just the beginning.

What followed was a masterclass in the unassuming genius living in our parks and school ovals. Brian spoke of corellas with the affection of a man who respects a formidable intellect. He described their social structures as “highly organised chaos.” They didn’t just have flocks, they had complex communities with distinct roles. Sentinels perched high in nearby trees, their watchful eyes scanning for threats while the others foraged. Their communication wasn’t just the familiar, grating squawk; it was a sophisticated suite of contact calls, warning trills, and conversational clucks that could identify individuals and relay specific information.

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Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo

“They’ve got a memory that’ll put yours to shame,” Brian continued, taking a swig of water. “They remember human faces for years. Be kind to one, and it’ll know you. Be a threat, and it’ll tell its mates, its kids, and probably its cousins three suburbs over. They learn from each other faster than kids sharing a viral video.” He’d witnessed it on jobs around the city’s fringe: a clever corella figuring out how to twist open a latch on a grain silo, and within a week, the entire local population had the trick down pat.

But his greatest admiration was reserved for their problem-solving. He’d seen them drop hard seeds onto bitumen roads for cars to crack open, a calculated use of urban infrastructure. He described their playful side, which was essentially high-IQ mischief: tying blades of grass into knots, hanging upside-down from powerlines just for the thrill of it, and engaging in what could only be described as aerial gymnastics with their flock mates.

“People see the sulphur-cresteds as the brainiacs because they’re louder about it,” Brian said, his eyes still on the foraging bird. “But these corellas… they’re the quiet strategists. They’re the ones working it all out in the background. They don’t need to chew your deck to prove they’re clever. They’d rather just figure out how to get into the birdproof feeder you bought last week.”

As he spoke, the corella lifted its head. Around its eye was a delicate, azure-blue ring, a splash of soft colour against the white and a faint salmon-pink wash between its eyes and beak. It was beautiful, not in a garish way, but in a detailed, understated fashion I’d never appreciated. It looked at us, not with the cockatoo’s demanding glare, but with a calm, appraising intelligence. It seemed to take us in, process the data of two stationary humans, and deem us non-critical. It gave a soft, conversational “cur-leek” call, and resumed its meticulous work.

In that moment, the ordinary lawn was transformed. It wasn’t just a patch of grass; it was a foraging ground for a feathered intellectual, a member of a sophisticated culture playing out its daily life between the soccer goals and the rose bushes.

Brian finished his water and crumpled the bottle. “They’re survivors,” he said finally. “Adaptable, social, smarter than they look. They see the world as a puzzle to be solved, not a territory to be conquered. Don’t underestimate the quiet ones,” he added, throwing me a wink as he climbed into his truck. “They’re often the ones running the show.”

I looked back at the corella, the ghost in the grass, now just a white smudge in the gathering dusk. I no longer saw a simple bird. Thanks to Brian, I saw a mind at work, a quiet genius in a world of noise, patiently solving the earth’s puzzles one meticulous probe of its beak at a time. The city, I realised, was full of such hidden, brilliant lives, waiting only for someone with the right eyes to point them out.

The Cautious Nature of a Rosella

The Sensible Splendour: A Rosella, an Audi, and a Plumber’s Platonic Ideal

In the avian salon presided over by Brian the tree lopper, every bird had its champion, its particular human who saw in them a kindred spirit. For the sulphur-crested cockatoo, it was anyone with a taste for anarchic brilliance. For the king-parrot, it was the quiet observers. But for the Crimson Rosella, that jewel of the sandstone gullies and suburban fringe, the most vocal advocate was, unexpectedly, Troy.

Troy was a plumber from the Sutherland Shire who drove a spotless, gunmetal-grey Audi and spoke with the unwavering conviction of a man who understands pressure systems and leak-free joins. He was Brian’s friend, often sharing a post-job beer in the shade of a newly trimmed gum, and while Brian’s stories were of characters and dramas, Troy’s rants—for they were indeed rants of the most passionate kind—were about aesthetics, engineering, and sensible conduct. And they were always, inevitably, about birds of the Sydney area, in particular, rosellas.

“Look at them, Brian. Just look,” Troy would begin, gesturing with his stubby bottle towards a pair foraging on the lawn. His voice, usually a practical monotone, would lift with something akin to reverence. “That colour. It’s not just red. It’s a crimson. A deep, proper, factory-finish crimson. No cheap, shiny metallic like the lorikeets. And the blue—not a sky blue, but a proper, naval, midnight-on-the- harbour blue on the wings and tail. And the spots! The black and cream scalloping on the back? That’s detail. That’s a quality finish.”

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Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cockatoo

To Troy, the rosella was a perfectly engineered product. Its colours were not haphazard but precisely appointed, like the flawless interior of his Audi. Its form was sleek, neither the portly bulk of a king-parrot nor the hyperactive sketch of a lorikeet. It was aerodynamic efficiency with a premium paint job.

But it was their demeanour that truly captivated the plumber’s soul. Where other birds elicited descriptions of personality—the cockatoo’s cunning, the magpie’s bravery—the rosella inspired a treatise on temperament.

“See how they approach?” he’d point out, his professional eye analysing their technique. “They don’t bomb in like hooligans. They don’t stand off in the shadows judging you. They land nearby. Ten feet away. A sensible distance.” They would peck at the grass, their dark eyes flicking up with a swift, calculated glance, assessing the risk-reward ratio of every millimetre of forward movement.

The classic test, the one that defined a bird for many, was the offered hand. A lorikeet would land on your head before you could blink. A cockatoo might deign to step up if it suspected a snack. But the rosella? Troy adored their response.

“That’s it, see?” he’d murmur, watching one eye a proffered seed in a palm. “They’re not scared. They’re not stupid. They’re… cautious. It’s a policy. They’re running the diagnostics.” He’d imagine the internal monologue: Proximity: acceptable. Human movement: currently minimal. Food source: verified. Threat matrix: all clear… for now. Recommendation: maintain current perimeter. Enjoy seed from this safe distance.

“They’re not going to step up on your finger just yet,” Troy would summarise, nodding with profound approval. “And why should they? They don’t know your service history. You haven’t proven your reliability. That’s not timidity, Brian, that’s prudence. That’s good sense.”

He loved their voices, too. Not the raucous, industrial screeching of the parrots, but the gentle, conversational piping. A sweet, descending “pee-oo-wee” that sounded, to Troy, like a polite, well-tuned alert. “It’s a notification,” he’d say. “Not an alarm. Just ‘be advised, I am here in the bottlebrush. Proceed with your activities, but be advised.’ Civilised.”

For Troy, the plumber who valued order, precision, and a job done cleanly, the Crimson Rosella was the platonic ideal of a bird. It was beauty without ostentation, presence without imposition, and a cautious, sensible intelligence that preferred a calculated observation to a reckless commitment. In a world of avian chaos—of bin-raiding cockatoos and squabbling lorikeets—the rosella was a testament to the virtues of good design and sensible protocol. They were, in his eyes, the perfect suburban cohabitants: breathtakingly gorgeous, utterly self-possessed, and absolutely unwilling to cut corners on their own safety for a cheap handful of seed. They kept their systems secure, their finish impeccable, and their interactions faultlessly polite. And as he’d finish his beer, watching them finally flutter away with a flash of that sublime blue, Troy would sigh with contentment. “Perfect,” he’d say to Brian. “Just a perfect bit of design, that.”

The Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo Redefines “Fun”

The Grand Architects: How the Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo Redefines “Fun”

If Brian the tree lopper introduced me to the avian characters of Sydney, then the Sulphur-crested Cockatoo was the one who needed no introduction. It was the one who introduced itself, usually with a shriek that could strip paint and an attitude that suggested it owned the place. Where the Rainbow Lorikeet is a noisy neighbour and the King-Parrot a silent judge, the Sulphur-crested Cockatoo is something else entirely: a brilliant, anarchic architect whose idea of a good time is measured in decibels, splinters, and the systematic deconstruction of human property.

For these magnificent, hulking white birds, “fun” is not a frivolous concept. It is a primal, intellectual, and deeply satisfying pursuit that aligns perfectly with their core identity as inquisitive, powerful, and social beings. To understand this is to move past the human-centric label of “pest” and to glimpse a world of avian amusement that happens to catastrophically intersect with our own.

Their primary source of joy is, unequivocally, chewing. But to call it mere chewing is to call the Sydney Opera House a shed. It is deconstructive art, stress relief, tool-making, and social bonding all rolled into one devastatingly effective beak-swing. A timber deck rail is not a boundary; it is a challenge, a puzzle of grain and glue. A window sill is not part of a house; it is a long, satisfying granola bar that reveals fascinating hollows and potentially tasty insects. Brian would point to the scalloped edges of a fascia board, each groove the perfect size of a curved beak. “See that?” he’d say, with a mix of horror and admiration. “That’s not hunger. That’s boredom. That’s a Saturday afternoon project.”

Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Australian_king_parrot

This destructive play serves multiple purposes. It keeps their formidable beaks—which can crack macadamia nuts with ease—in perfect trim. It provides essential mental stimulation for a creature often compared to a toddler with bolt-cutters in terms of intelligence and curiosity. And, crucially, it is a social activity. A pair or a gang of cockatoos will happily spend hours reducing a prized merbau pergola to a pile of splinters, communicating with constant, satisfied grumbles and squawks. The shared endeavour, the communal noise, the tangible result: it’s a team-building exercise with a tangible, if costly, outcome.

Which brings us to the modern addition to their playground: the solar panel. To a cockatoo, this sleek, glassy installation on a sunny roof is the ultimate multifunctional leisure centre. Firstly, it is a superb mirror. The sight of their own imposing reflection—the flaring sulphur crest, the hunched shoulders—promises a thrilling, lifelong rivalry with a bird that never backs down. The subsequent pecking and scratching at this insolent doppelgänger is both combat and vanity.

Secondly, the space beneath the panel is a coveted nesting or roosting spot: sheltered, warm, and predator-proof. Gaining access, however, requires renovation. The persistent gnawing at cabling, the prising up of edges, the removal of obstructive brackets—this is not vandalism. This is home improvement. They are simply customising their new penthouse suite, oblivious to the fact it was designed to power our dishwashers.

For Brian, witnessing this from his treetop vantage was a masterclass in adaptive behaviour. “They used to strip the cedar shingles off old water tanks for nesting material,” he mused one day, watching a trio investigate a neighbour’s shiny new array. “Now it’s PV cables. They’re not trying to ruin it. They’re just using what we give them. We built them a city full of perfect chew toys and then act surprised when they play.”

Their fun is underscored by a breathtaking intelligence. They learn from each other. A technique for opening a wheelie bin, pioneered by one enterprising bird in one suburb, becomes group knowledge within weeks, spreading like a viral trend across the city. The satisfying pop of a solar panel junction box lid flying off is a sound of victory, a puzzle solved, a new game unlocked.

To live alongside the Sulphur-crested Cockatoo is to accept a fundamental truth: our human landscape is their enrichment zone. The destruction they leave in their wake—the gnawed furniture, the shredded weatherboards, the disabled solar arrays—is, from their perspective, merely the by-product of a life well-lived. It is the evidence of games played, skills honed, bonds strengthened, and territories explored. They are the ultimate players in a city they never agreed to share, finding endless fun in the very things we build to separate ourselves from the wild. In their raucous, destructive joy, they remind us that nature’s most compelling forces are not always gentle, quiet, or compatible with double-glazed windows. They are loud, brilliant, and uncompromisingly fun—on their own terms.

King Parrots – They watch from a distance.

But then, Brian would pause. He’d take a long sip from his water bottle, his eyes scanning the quieter, deeper green of the back fences and the remnant patches of bush.

And he’d talk about the other birds of the neighbourhood. The ones who don’t scream.

“Now, the king-parrots,” he’d say, his voice softening. “That’s a different story. You don’t find them. They find you. And they watch.”

He said on the job, high up in the harness with the saw quiet, you’d feel it. A sense of being… observed. You’d look over, and there, on a thick, horizontal branch in the next yard over, or deep in the dappled shadow of a lilly pilly, would be this… this statue of a bird.

“The males,” Brian described, “are like something from a storybook. That red, it’s not a flashy red. It’s a deep, velvety crimson, like a royal cloak. And the green on his wings? It’s the dark, shimmering green of the deep forest floor. He doesn’t move. He just… perches. Solid. Calm.”

He said the experience was always the same. The king-parrot wouldn’t flinch at the noise from the street or the distant shriek of the lorikeets. Its dark eye would just be fixed on you, this quiet, inscrutable orb taking your measure.

“It’s not like the cockatoo, which is sizing you up for intelligence, or the miner bird, which is just deciding if you’re a threat. The king-parrot… it feels more philosophical. Like he’s the steward of this place, and you’re the temporary visitor with the loud machine. He’s waiting to see if you understand that. If you’ll be respectful.”

Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo

Brian said the magic was in the contrast. After the rainbow lorikeets—all noise and speed and liquid colour—the king-parrot was a study in stillness and profound, elegant colour. It was the difference between a shout and a deep, thoughtful silence.

“They’re shy, see,” he’d explain, coiling a rope with slow, deliberate hands. “They don’t come for the chaos. They come for the quiet after. You have to earn their appearance. Do the job carefully, don’t thrash the tree, leave some habitat… and sometimes, if you’re lucky, they’ll just be there at the end of the day, watching you pack up.”

He made it sound like a benediction. To be observed, and deemed unobtrusive enough, by this feathered gentleman in his emerald and scarlet waistcoat.

“They’re the quiet judges of the suburbs,” Brian concluded, a smile playing on his lips. “The lorikeets own the soundtrack. But the king-parrots? They hold the deed.”

Lorikeets – Little Flying Dogs

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.”

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Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainbow_lorikeet

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.

So Many Native Birds in Sydney

The Feathered Tapestry: Lorikeets, Cockatoos, Rosellas and King Parrots

lorikeet in a tree For years, I saw Sydney’s avian life as little more than a pleasant, noisy backdrop. The raucous squawks at dawn were simply the city waking up; the flashes of colour in the canopy were peripheral details, overshadowed by the harbour’s glitter or the architecture’s grandeur. I didn’t really care much and had never visited any facebook page all about australian birds. That all changed, not through a guided tour or a glossy book, but through Brian, a tree lopper with sawdust in his boots and a twinkle in his eye.
And Imust admit later on i did visit the Australian bird website he had mentioned and of course there were amazing videos of these guys all over the place.

Brian arrived one autumn morning to prune a towering, unruly gum in our backyard. As he surveyed the tree, rope in hand, he didn’t just see limbs and leaves. He pointed a calloused finger upward. “See that hollow? About fifteen feet up on the north side? That’s a busy apartment block right there. Listen.” We stood in silence, and soon, a soft chattering emerged. Then, a vibrant green head with a shock of scarlet popped out. “Rainbow Lorikeets,” Brian whispered, as if sharing a secret.

Highly Intelligent Corellas – a type of cockatoo