GIL JAMIESON SAT looking over Three Moon Flat, a shotgun across his sarong-covered knee as the sound of the crows in a vast gum tree filled the air. “They make a hell of a racket,” I said, stating the obvious.

“They know I’ve got the gun out,” he smiled. “Smart bastards. I killed one yesterday and they haven’t shut up since.” He stood up, put the old Browning to his shoulder and aimed it at the tree. The birds lifted in a dark spore of a cloud and wheeled about overhead, cawing with one voice. It sounded vaguely human, like the eerie soundtrack to a Hieronymus Bosch painting, if there were one.