I am thinking of making the brush turkeys pay rent. (Although I suppose they should be charging me, given that they were here first. I hope they don't read this.) It is raining, so they have abandoned the roof for the shelter of the house. Harry is on the patio, while the others are distributed along the front wall. I haven't checked the carport. I expect it is full of feathers and coated in poop.
A chick joined the adults for a short time. It had black plumage and a vertically-folded tail just like them, but the last wisps of down still clung to its head in a fluffy Mohawk. The adults gave it sidelong glances. It is not surprising that the young ones hang around together. Obviously the big ones just don't understand them.
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A dry January was followed by an even drier February here. (This is not the case for other parts of coastal Far North Queensland. Or, indeed, for big areas to the west.). We have been experiencing hot mornings and afternoon storms, which are more characteristic of the build up than of the Wet. A lack of rainy season means that I haven't got very far through my rainy season library. I've finished Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies and Daniel Woodrell's Outlaw Album and have started reading Richard Flanagan's Death of a River Guide,. I should have gone for something with more laughs.
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The bridge opened on Saturday. It is not finished, but no one cares. Even without guide rails, it is still safer than the corrugated, potholed goat track that we've been forced to use since Christmas Day 2010. And now we're all off to buy new tyres and wash the fine red dust from the door seals.