perhaps it was the wrong bird one heard cawking
among the trees, those magpies with their black and
white wings, so clustered around the page that they
had trapped in daylight, its wise back crouched against
the inner bark, tearing its feathers to shreds, perhaps
it was the wrong bird, perhaps it was the blackbird, singing
its enchantments at the gateway, at twilight,
the first stars appearing in the sky, at the entrance
to an enchanted cave or the threshold to another
world, the haunting soulsong, of which it is said
that to eat one of the eggs of a blackbird made
a human being winged, though it is also the bird
of the fire, the metalworker's bird, in the smith of the work,
that bird which wakes the dead and lulls the living to sleep,
particularly those who are sick or wounded, healing them
with sweetest music and berries from the rowan tree

This magpie does not translate
The Aranda people tell of how Urbura the Magpie
Drove rebirth from the universe by his anger
And how the curlews still mourn the loss
Because he trampled the dead man into the ground
As his head and his nose and his throat rose out his grave
But most of the time this magpie is not aggressive
It can make a charming and intelligent pet
Although it always flies away when fully grown
Only during the breeding season it will protect its nest
By swooping down on intruders clacking its beak
It thinks hats are particularly provocative
This magpie is misnamed for its European likeness
And so is often mistaken for something else
It is related to the currawong and the butcher bird
An eater of insects and a clown
Who can mimic the barking of dogs and gates creaking
Still, there are few things more enchanting than a duet
Of magpies winding their liquid carolling
Through the emerging trees of a vanishing dawn