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My beloved starlings are fewer than ever. In the panicdemic (2020?) I started a major love affair with baby starlings by the Serpentine who flew in the air catching bread I threw for the swans. They then lined up - ten at a time on my bare arm, hopping into my palm, one by one, to collect some crumbs and fly off. Gorgeous little birds.
Some of the loud bird sounds in Oz quite freak me out.
And every day at dusk where I am 1000s of bats fly in ginormous groups silhouetted against a rising moon to a park by the harbor. It's like something out of a Hammer Horror film.