The Flying Foxes.
Not fruitbats, you understand. And not bats, who live in caves and get themselves from A to B in pitch blackness through some magical sensory powers. No, these fellas have better eyesight than me. They feast on fruit trees up and down the east coast of Australia. They hang like Christmas baubles high in the trees until sunset, when they travel across Sydney in huge numbers, through Centennial Park, swooping low over the steets, depositing their droppings all over the place.
They're noisy buggers as well. You can hear them as you approach the botanical gardens, even during the day when they are supposed to be having a kip. It sounds as though there's some sort of distant rock concert going on with lots of squealing teenage girls in the audience.
Here are some pictures we captured with the zoom lens this afternoon.
There's one lives on a telegraph wire near here. I see him every time I drive Ella to nursery, hanging upside down airing the inside pockets of his leather jacket. I'm always disappointed if he's not home.
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