Wye River, where there is the shy green one, with its William Morris thing, feathers layering seamlessly from crown to tail. She is noticed first in a many-flowered bush and shows herself at our April windows when all is silence. Her eye is a sky of aquamarine. She survived the fires. Then there’s the shy blue one, his coat with its Brett Whiteley thing, shifting from black to sapphire depending on sunlight, feathers one shining surface like lakewater. He appears without notice, his single purpose to grab the grape and go, slightest noise and he’s gone. His eye sees us.