Only just begun

Conventionally we see them old and wise, laconically dominating their environment with the confidence born of their longevity.  Or we see them as mortal tortletts, freshly hatched and scrambling for safety from ambush predators.

Rarely do we get to see them from this more human angle.  Safe from harm and free to enjoy its environment, it is nearly possible to anthropomorphise a smile from the beak of this young reptile.  Bright eyes shine with enthusiastic curiosity as it explores its sanctuary.  It is one of the lucky few who will never worry about sating the hunger of others or about being caught in recklessly placed fishing nets.

It will certainly outlive me and - I hope - live long into the lives of the next generation.

Come hither

In the temperate climate of Tasmania, Spring is heralded by an explosion of colour across tens of thousands of flower beds.  Brilliant hues of immense beauty dot the landscape and crowd botanical exhibitions.  They clamour for prominence in order to attract willing pollinators.

It might seem odd then that I have chosen to share a bloom without the exotic plumage I have so far mentioned.  But my logic is sound.  The softness of these petals and the clarity of this reproductive machinery best represents how flowers work.  Or at least it does to me.

Seldom do we focus on the imperative that drives flora to radiate their aesthetic.  So enamoured do we become with their fragrant charm, that we neglect to appreciate its subtle purpose.  We only get to experience this orgy of colour and scent for a few brief months each year.  Never should we take that for granted.

Flower Power

Most flowers are harmless, right?  Give or take a few tropical varieties, the vast majority of commercially harvested fields of plants are not going to pose any immediate threat to me or you.

But not these poppies.  Wherever you go throughout northern Tasmania, you’re likely to see rolling hills of these beautiful flowers carefully fenced and brandishing big, bold warning signs of danger.  Skull and cross-bones glare over the words “Death may result from inappropriate use”.

Confusion reigned as I tried to reconcile what constitutes “inappropriate use”.  I know these open fields aren’t planted for opium production, so why do they need these signs?  The answer came shortly before I left the Apple isle.

These are genetically modified poppies.  They’ve been grown to reduce the number of refinements necessary to manufacture codeine.  Pretty impressive.  Still, I cannot help but giggle at the thought of poppy rustlers stealing into these rural properties late at night in order to pick flora for their own mad-scientist refinements.

Patterns

By most standards this is a small lighthouse.  Only 80 steps separate base to lamp room in this white tower.  The fact that it stands on the edge of a 300 foot cliff overlooking Bass Strait might account for its diminutive form.

No longer manned, part of its romance has been lost to innovative engineering.  The occasional check-up is all that is required today in order to replace its rarely burnt-out bulbs.  Even these are nothing special and can be easily carried in a trouser pocket.

But when looking down from its top through the tower’s centre, I’m reminded of the patterns I see elsewhere in nature.  I think it’s appropriate that the inside of a lighthouse can often look like the shells I find littered on the seashore.

Devil of a Time

Outside of Launceston, there is a road that winds its way through farmlands to the Meander Valley.  Along the occasionally sign-posted thoroughfare, I finally reach a sign that recommends I turn left into Tasmania Zoo.

Up an unsealed path, I drive past a beautiful pond until I reach the concrete-block bricked entrance.  A joke with the owner and then I’m off wandering around the grounds.

The stars of the zoo are not who I expect as I wander past cages of rescued, exotic birds.  For me, the primary attraction hides in an open pen with long grass.

When they hear me approach, they run over to introduce themselves.  When they see I don’t have food, they almost harrumph and find some shade to sulk and go back to sleep.  For this juvenile Tasmanian devil and its two siblings, I’m not the least bit interesting.

Usually nocturnal and in a wild population decimated by facial tumour disease, to see three young, healthy specimens of their species is a treat.  And even at this age, they are developing the characteristics I’ve seen in the wild.

While I don't like many zoos, it's great to see a local one actively involved in the preservation of its native fauna.  After all, in the Western world it's not easy being a Devil.