Bush Chinwag Why do we assume birdsong profound? Why don’t we grant birds the intelligence to motor-mouth on, and be as superficial as us?   Those two Rosellas, chirping back and fro, could be discussing the bright blue feather, of Esmerelda, a Fairywren, just flown in, for a visit, escaping weather,   sporting the latest plumage, fashionable on the Strait. The Cicada babble might be debate as to whether that far off rumble means rain, or commentary on the latest pain-   in-the arse, full-of-himself dolt emerging from his final moult. The Willie Wagtail, perched there, on the side of…