Perhaps I should have been surprised when the magpie first spoke. Strange as it may seem, I had become quite used to the mimicries of those curious backyard birds, with their pristine black-and-white feathers, their inquisitive orange-red eyes. Their infamy as deadly swoopers, as springtime terrors of the skies, is legend here in Australia. But I’d never myself been swooped, always associated them rather with their mellifluous warblings, their impersonations. Maybe you remember, too, back when we first moved here as Ten Pound Poms, over half a century ago now, that time a magpie perfectly imitated the mew of our first cat: the irascible ginger, Mr Bentley. Now that was a surprise. Hearing his unmistakable complaints and turning to see not a raggedy ball of orange fur padding toward us across the garden, but an impostor, now hopping, now strutting, peering at us from first one eye, then the other. That muggy afternoon, so many summers ago, the magpie held its beak high and let forth another meow, both throatier and more pure than Mr Bentley’s, but in all other details precisely correct. Since then, I’ve heard magpies imitate all kinds of odd sounds: a neighborhood dog; the onomatopoeic calls of currawongs; and once, the rising and falling groans of a leaf-blower. I was so used to their strange calls, I would hardly have paid this one any mind, if it hadn’t spoken with your voice. And addressed me by name—the name no one had ever called me but you… 

Read the full story for free in Issue 33 of Bourbon Penn.