What’s not to love about a Muppet in a long coat with spooky eyes like something out of a Scooby Doo cartoon? Posing as tree stumps on a branch, tawny frogmouths almost parody themselves.

But there’s much more to them than that. Frogmouths have another life that few people see: like vampires, they wake at sunset and night-hunt until dawn. These stolid creatures turn into zephyrs that silently swoop, catching prey on the ground and in the air.

Last spring, I followed a breeding pair in my local park and saw what happens in the night: the unsung glory of frogmouth life.

Frogmouths breed from August to December and that’s the best season for watching them fly. They’re constantly on the wing, bringing food to their offspring.

My frogmouth project took place at Hopetoun Gardens, Elsternwick, in Melbourne’s south-east. From early August, I visited the Federation-era park, eventually clocking up more than 40 visits. The popular park features locally significant trees including Illawarra flame trees, a bunya-bunya pine and several Cedrus deodara (cedar) specimens the tawnies like to nest in.

Initially, I looked for the telltale white splodges on the ground, or “whitewash” (poop). Frogmouths are prodigious creators, leaving copious amounts beneath their nests.

I finally found a tawny in early September. It was daytime and he was on a nest, brooding eggs. He perched on a collection of sticks straddling a fork in a huge Himalayan cedar.

One October evening, in the gathering darkness, I got my first view of the chicks and the parents flying. One of them suddenly dived off the nest and into the trees. A minute later, it flew back. There was just enough light to make out the movement of two small shapes in the nest, reaching up.

I’m not sure what I expected of a flying tawny. Would it be slow, like a pelican gathering height? Or need a long takeoff, like a black swan? Of course not – they flew with panache, threading in and out of lamp-posts, bushes and trees.

In late October, the nestlings took on the universally adored “Cousin It” look. With thick, downy plumage more like fur than feathers, they nestled into their parents’ chests. Even at this young age, they’d learned to stare at humans – a mini-me threat display just like mum and dad’s.

The chicks left the nest at the end of October. They couldn’t fly yet, but as “branchlings”, they jostled each other up and down the branch and rapidly flapped their wings, building their muscles up for flight.

On 22 October, Melbourne had a wind storm, with destructive wind speeds of up to 130 km/h. I fretted that the branchlings wouldn’t survive, but they made it, going on to properly fledge (take their first flights) in early November.

This period saw the parents heroically keep up the food supply to their kids. One night, I watched the big cedar tree as one adult plunged smoothly to the ground right in front of me, catching prey from the grass and returning to feed them.

The other parent flew off and quickly returned. I timed them for 10 minutes: in that time they hunted and fed their offspring five times each – an extraordinary effort.

There was only light enough to make out the silhouettes of the adults. But they were substantial enough to glimpse flying across the park. They flew without a sound, showing a fleeting suggestion of their striped wings.

Watching this night-time bird theatre was great entertainment. It was wildlife drama, in the dark, for an audience of one.

I learned the frogmouths’ calls. They had a repetitive “oom, oom”, a soft “huff” and a screechy hiss. The “huff” was the young birds waiting for food. Once they’d fledged and were moving around the park, I listened for those “huffs” and always found them.

Once, I was flown at by an adult (doubtless disturbed by me). To my surprise, it buzzed like a loud bee.

Winning the Guardian’s 2025 Bird of the Year contest has surely helped the tawny win over more fans. Still, it’s hard to pinpoint why I became so focused on these nocturnal birds. After all, I’d known about them for years.

I’d watch them in the daytime and pick up their marbled feathers as souvenirs. I’ve always loved their front-facing eyes, which mark them as the pugs of the bird world.

Now, I’m even fonder of them because, as Australia’s most common night-hunting bird, they’re so easy to find. And when you do, you’re rewarded with some of the most exhilarating birding experiences on offer – the transformation of daytime “stump” into aerial athlete.

Debbie Lustig is a Melbourne writer, birdwatcher and occasional wildlife rescuer

© The Guardian