Nearby Galinyala Port Lincoln in Barngalla Country, I take a walk along the edge of the water by the start of the national park. The ground is all firm limestone, the highest trees mallees and the lower level maleleucas. Every now and then I get a view of the water of Proper Bay to my left, all calm out of the south easterly wind. An emu has left cakes of droppings along the path, with the odd kangaroo ones too. There are butterflies, honeyeaters, currawongs, a white faced heron by the water, many ants in nests along the trail, campsites by the water’s edge, cockies tongues and, I think, dodder laurel vines. I follow the trail up a rise, down a small slope—alto stratus above—pass by a well likely where an old tree had been, limestone grown around it, dry. Eventually I find the spot I’m looking for, paperbarks beside it. I climb down the limestone layers of shells and crusts and take off my shoes, wade into the shallow cold water, and sing a little…in this watery, earthy place.