A yellow-throated honeyeater was making the most of fine, warm weather during the autumnal equinox. Instinct honed over the eons told the yellowthroat that equal parts night and day meant winter was approaching.
Although the first day of March is on our calendars the official start of autumn, Mother Nature has other ideas. Autumn starts on the equinox, on March 21 this year, and before this date we already had a taste of winter with two exceptionally cold days prompted by chilly winds blowing from the south-west. I noted that the birds had fallen silent in this short period but as soon as the wind direction changed they were back in full voice.
The honeyeater sang constantly and joyously. I like to think it was singing just for the delight of it, the breeding season over. But perhaps a new territory had to be declared for winter and beyond, in a scramble to fill the void after the migrants had left.
The yellowthroats are common in bushland surrounding Hobart and because of this we perhaps do not pay them the attention they deserve. Human brains are naturally predisposed to ignoring the familiar, and impressed only by the new, the different. Anything ubiquitous, always in view, always in our surroundings grows invisible. The yellowthroats can hardly be considered invisible in a wider sense. If we take time to look at them closely – as I did on the day of the equinox – we can see a radiant beauty that is so often a blur as they dart through the upper branches and canopy of the gums and wattles.
They are named, of course, after the splash of yellow on their throat but this is not always visible unless they stay still long enough for the full plumage to be viewed. Most often they present a more subtle hue – grey on the stomach and head, and moss-green on the back which gives them perfect camouflage among the leaves.
Most obvious is their curious song – it can only be described as a loud rapid-fire chortle.
The yellowthroat is one of 12 species endemic to the state, and during the walk I always take to celebrate the autumn and spring equinoxes and the longest and shortest days in mid-winter and summer, I managed to see or hear five more of them – the black currawong, yellow wattlebird, black-headed honeyeater, Tasmanian native-hen and green rosella.
Birds time their lives to the solar calendar and it has been suggested in birding circles that during the autumn equinox they become confused by the equal hours of sunlight and darkness. On sunny days they think it is spring.
On such a glorious, warm and sunny day on March 21, the birds were certainly full of the joys of spring. Ultimately, as the weather turns and the days grow shorter, they will be in for a shock.