For two evenings in a row I have stood under three noolyarak white-tailed black cockatoos as they flew from the western side of the curving river, across cliffs, to the eastern edge—two nights in a row, their long slow flap of wings, like a sculpting of air, the occasional screech let free. And then again this morning, while driving, further up the coast, three more coming into land in some backyard tree carefully chosen, though unseen by me on the road. Three noolyarak like three kings going.