On the Sunday before Christmas, I rose at dawn and took a cup of tea into the garden to watch the birds.
The resident magpies were in the garden. In the trees were currawongs, crimson rosellas, king parrots, red wattle birds, bower birds, a grey thrush.
Nearby I heard the cackle of kookaburras, and the screams of yellow-tailed black cockatoos.
At 11 o’clock we were attracted by the sound of a magpie and the calls of other birds all at once.
A wedge-tailed eagle soared across the garden, just above tree-top height. The magpie’s mate pursued the eagle, attacking from behind.
The eagle circled a few times, the circles large enough to take him out of the magpie’s territory.
The magpie returned to the garden, satisfied that he had chased the eagle away.
Then higher and higher, and like a surfer catching a wave, the eagle caught an air current and disappeared behind the trees, back to the Grose Valley.