To be broadcast nationally on radio...
Last week the mangoes were still too hard; too green; too bitter, even for the palates of adventurous ants.
Incapable of resisting a sweet promise though, possums and flying foxes rustle greedily through the pendulous branches of the mango tree by our back door, merrily munching lumps out of unripe fruit before tossing it, unfinished, onto our tin roof where it lands with an echoing thud, then rolls, drops and splits.
Then last night I heard the distinctive honk of magpie geese: an advance party perhaps, fresh in from the flood plains of Kakadu, scouting around in the sky for an ideal spot to spend the build up.
And as if on cue this morning as the temperature escalated, the air grew thick with the sticky, sweet perfume of fallen fruit, its flesh exposed on the ground: ripe, soft, custard yellow and swarming in hungry ants.
Now we listen out, anticipating the first descent when a hundred honking geese will take up temporary residence in our orchard. They'll spend the next several weeks waddling, gobbling and squabbling over red and yellow mangoes; excitedly discussing the mango they just ate, the mango they're eating or the mango they're about to eat with any goose who'll listen.
Their bazooka-like mango melody is a welcome accompaniment to the consistent sssss-ing of serenading cicadas.
Often the geese will take a private moment away from the feasting hordes to promenade around our garden in elegant pairs and cheeky trios. They nosily poke their orangey beaks into anything of interest but when they realise we're watching they scuttle off, knobby heads held high, honking: 'not guilty, it wasn't me'.
And as the weeks go by it becomes a free for all: humans, flying foxes, possums, wallabies, birds, ants and geese; all taking what they need when they need it and relishing the glut of gorgeous golden manna.
Over-ripe fruit gets trampled under webbed foot or lies fermenting in the boiling sun. The geese become tipsy. In place of a graceful glide into the welcoming flock, they crash land, skid raucously into each other and flatten anything that gets in their way.
As the sun drops they fly off to roost precariously in the tallest trees. Their large black and white bodies sway so comically it's a miracle they can sleep with just their webbed feet gripped tightly around those flimsy branches. I wonder if, like the rest of us, they've begun dreaming about mangoes.
We are told there's money to be made in selling our fruit. But we prefer it this way where everything goes back into the soil for an even tastier crop next year.
And anyway sharing the mangoes with our furred and feathered friends is a far more rewarding investment.
