We find our strangeness in nature.

Outside our house, a cuckoo sits in a gum tree, calling plaintively to his parents. His voice is uncannily like a whinging baby. He calls and calls for food.

His parents are two currawongs, who fly to their baby as often as they can. Their hurried manner makes me think that they are stressed. They do not sing, they do not settle. They feed their demanding child and fly away for more.

The cuckoo is no longer in a nest. He is large, probably twice the weight of each of his parents. My guess is that he is the bird-equivalent of a needy teenager, not a baby at all. The parents should tell him to buzz off and fend for himself. Instead they keep bringing him food.

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