Birds have always been part of my life’s landscape. As a child, I spent my summer holidays slipping into the hush of the bush with a pair of binoculars and a head full of hope. Those solitary walks taught me how to listen and to notice not just movement, but stillness.

Bird photography, for me, is about rhythm: the daily rituals of flight and foraging, the shifting light, the slow turning of the seasons. I am drawn to both the dramatic and the everyday: a black-shouldered kite hovering in still air, a tawny frogmouth disguised in plain sight, a little wattlebird clinging to the underside of a golden banksia flower. Or the fine dusting of pollen across an eastern spinebill’s face after it drinks from a pink Correa bloom, a fleeting exchange between bird and flower that speaks of deep, ancient ties.

There’s something meditative in birdwatching, a stillness that slows the breath and sharpens the senses. It draws me out of my own head and into the living world. Waiting quietly, alert to every flutter and call, I feel anchored in the moment. Each encounter is a reminder to pay attention, to be present, to look and listen with care.

I try to blend into the bush, to tread lightly, watching birds go about their day. But often, I find myself being watched in return. Some of my favourite moments are those rare instances when a bird meets my gaze, steady, unafraid. We share a stillness then, a hush that feels like its own language. 

Sometimes that gaze is solemn, sometimes full of mischief, like the emu who peered straight down my lens, entirely unfazed, as though wondering what kind of bird I might be. These moments remind me that birds are not only beautiful, they are full of character, presence, and agency.

Birds offer me both delight and solace. Their beauty is vivid, their ancient songs layered, their presence, or absence, a quiet message from the land itself. I see them as barometers of balance, whispering truths about the health of our world.

When I photograph them, I feel hope. Hope that we can still listen, still notice, still act. For my young son, and for the future we all share.