I arrive at the lake this morning and there seems to be one helluva racket amongst the birds by the big trees to the east. Not only are the lorikeets all screeching, wardong is crowing up a storm, and jakalak the red wattlebird is giving away his true name loudly, incessantly. And even old dili-brit the magpie lark is there singing out his high-pitched protest. I see koolbardie the magpie on a branch or two, though he doesn’t seem to say much—one of the few. And I wonder if there might be a raptor circling higher, or even perched among the trees, for they don’t seem to be chasing much, or evading either. It’s just an all-round protesting cacophony. I walk the path and approach the lakeside edge, and there spot a few people looking up at a forking ledge amongst the gums. And there in one little hollow sits a still and furry morning goomal, the possum, awake in the day, kept awake no doubt by all this bothering. Some town official has been keeping the birds at bay, or at least that’s what I gather from what I overhear the nearby people say. I walk a little south, and look up at him, all pink-nosed and big, black eyed. I go and watch the lake for a while, and wait for the whole thing to pass over, the whole thing to subside. Eventually people seem to move on and even the birds do too. I walk back a little and look up at the little fella in the tree. There is no more screeching. Jakalak remains though, looking on inquisitively, jumping from branch to branch. The official is doing a lap to catch lead-less dogs, while someone keeps on filming and taking photos, wanting me to know everything she’s just learned: “The ranger threw sticks at the birds; not usually out in the day apparently; probably traumatised, the little thing.” Someone on a bike stops to ask me if it’s a koala; their accent is South African. They then immediately suggest “or a possum” before I can reply. I can see his little limbs are shaking. He’s licking some of them. I walk around the other side of the tree—he doesn’t seem bloody or pecked at, like one I saw here a year or two ago, in nearby tree, who had a run-in with the crows. I consider calling the same person I did back then, and waiting for him and wildlife officers and more town employees to come. But goomal looks like he’s stopped shaking, I can’t see any blood, and the birds seem to have moved on for the most part. Last year the possum eventually moved to another tree. And I wonder what more could be done for this one now. So I get on, no birds left screaming, no people left to bother him, for now.

(Post script: I come again the next day and, from that spot at least, he is gone.)