This week I'm turning this column space over to something more eloquent and impactful than anything I can come up with.
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It's a eulogy written by Coledale mum Kylie Madden for a lyrebird which was killed by a hit-and-run four-wheel-drive on the weekend.
Yes, a bird. Just one bird on one road - but this spectacular bird, it seems, meant far more, particularly as a sign of the times in the northern suburbs.
Without further ado, I'll let Kylie say adieu. Under a picture of the bird's magnificent corpse, she wrote:
"This is Frank the superb lyrebird. Frank and I have known each other a long time. It's been more than eight years. Longer than my son has been alive. Frank owned this block on Buttenshaw more than I did. In his mind, he also owns all our neighbour's land.
"It was he and his family's domain alone - and he defended it fiercely. He is the king of this place.
"His song repertoire is impressive - kookaburras, gerygones, king parrots, yellow-tailed black cockatoos. He even sings the ghost songs of birds that are now gone from this stretch of bush (victims of the recent drought and the local cat): logrunners and yellow-throated scrub wrens. He hasn't forgotten them.
"We have had a rocky relationship, Frank and I. His feet are huge and destructive. I have sworn at him and thrown things at him. His boldness knew no bounds and he had zero conscience about ripping up my newly planted vegetables or tossing a row of freshly planted natives onto the mulch.
"But now he's gone. Hit by a car on this exponentially busy road. He's been crossing this road for years, but he's currently moulting and probably not as quick as he normally is. And as all the locals know, most cars are driving too fast up here.
"Farewell Frank. You were one of the most accomplished lyrebirds I have known - your mimicry was incredible. I wonder how old you were? Twenty years? Thirty? I've no doubt you were an old man, but today when I picked you off the road you were plump and healthy looking. Your eye still shone bright and your strong feet still dirty, undoubtedly from mucking around in my veggies, you evil bastard. I'll miss your beautiful songs that have been a constant of the last ten months at home through cancer treatment. Always watching me with those big bright eyes, yelling at me if I got too close. It's your place, after all.
"Nothing will bring you back, but I've already phoned Council about trying to get some traffic calming up here ... and I'm feeling feisty as all hell about it."
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