Wayan the whitefaced heron and kwirlam the purple swamphen on the dry lakebed. Wayan is still, white-faced grey, and silent, watching something in the dry mud, frozen mid-step and ready to strike, spear like. Kwirlam, all dark and colourful purple chested blue, with red nose and beak, comes up behind him, a little off to the side, and adopts the same position for a while, mirroring, mimicking, pausing mid step, and looking over, round as the heron is straight, full as the heron is line-like. The swamphen moves on, into the reeds, where he noisily and colourfully feeds, often on grass stems or seeds. The heron finally shoots out and pounces, something living soon no longer so in its beak. The one bird as if fallen down from the skies, thieving bugs and insects with a flick. The other, as if risen from the earth, like the sound of its guttural cry, as wilful as the heron is awkward and barely descended. The heron, when he does fly, flaps jerking at the air; the swamphen barely makes it off the ground, it’s feet dangling, ready to touchdown again, destined to be the only bird who stays when the lake finally, completely dries.