“Ode to Chip Bird” was written to commemorate the infamous battle of wills that took place at the Nash Gallery and Cafe – in Esk, Queensland one Sunday afternoon.
You’ve all undoubtedly heard tale of the chip chess that eventuated on a lazy weekend in October. This account aims to cement the victor in meandering prose.
At the end of the day – who was really the winner?
The bird? The chip? The unfeathered mammal?
All we can really tell you, is that the Nash Gallery and Cafe serves delicious food, and should be on your bucket list of places to luncheon.
Our lunch was served in the garden.
How delicious!
Ham off the bone, cheese off the cow, tomato off the vine.
The hot chips, plated on the side – were our downfall.
You smelled them on the breeze and waited for unguarded plates.
A bottle of Mount Franklin, an ally in disguise.
‘Hello, friend’ – your sweet beak implied.
‘Hello, friend’ – we calmly replied.
You sniffed, and paced, and danced for our delight.
A little closer to the plate. A chip in your sights.
Perhaps a slice of ham, forgotten in the lunch rush.
Just a taste to wet your beak.
You edge closer. We become wary.
Alone you are timid, pretending to be out on a Sunday walk.
Soon your plan becomes known.
Three friends – called from the heavens.
A gaggle of greed. A flutter of fast feet to baffle the befuddled diner.
Oh we are three! Winged and ready to pounce on your leftovers. A chip! We must! Begone!
….
“No. You may try your luck when we are gone”.
We entreat, and keep our seat.
Ah, but you are a canny fellow!
Where have you gone? Are our chips now safe from the sky terror?
Your ruse is masterful, and we are but confused meat mammals who have eaten too much potato.
You almost win the day!
But too soon! Too soon! You peer from behind your Mountain and are seen!
Egads! Egast! The plan is out at last!
You had NOT forgotten your meal! You had NOT given up the fight.
We huddle over our plate, to keep you off the cooling stack of bread crusts.
Out in the open, fully – we see you are also a master at the game of chip chess.
We cede that each side has won points.
The chips are still in play.
How long do we stay?
Your home, your rules – we soon have to leave.
You pretend nonchalance and probably don’t even like chips.
We pack our bags, full from our feast and tired from the battle of wills.
Our backs turn.
Your beaks turn.
Nothing remains for the waitstaff.
