The magpies used to greet me as I arrived at the beach shack, and as we left, they’d re-assert their place once more, striding back into the front garden. But they seem to have moved on down the road these days. In their place, we have the bullet-proof bodies of the currawong, beady-eyed, tough-beaked, sleek-winged, with their flash of white at the tail. They clatter like earthmoving machines on the tin roof and watch fiercely from the gutters. They might be black and white, but they’re not my magpies. It seems our magpie family has moved on down the hill, and closer to the ocean, scared away by the bigger birds. I try not to take it personally, but I can’t help it. I want the magpies back, sharing some land, as part of my family. My love of magpies is not based on any ornithological knowledge or scientific curiosity. My attraction is relational: an interaction of beings and emotions; a sense of connection as to how to place myself in the world. They pick me up and sweep me away in