Ngalkaning (or nankeen if you can’t manage that) night heron all rufous and still in the evening by the river, perched above a pylon at the end of the water-police jetty. And slightly above him, on a bigger pylon, two janjarak silver gulls squawking and screaming at him to leave. They don’t fly or dive bomb, but merely screech down at him from a feet or two away, all flustered and inflamed. At one point the heron seems to point his beak a little more their way and then open it up, but his movements are so subtle it’s hard to really see, and maybe it was imagined. The gulls squawk and protest even louder, and the heron seems to return to his earlier position—one eye on the gulls, the other looking occasionally sideways at the river beneath. In any case, he seems poised—looking at his assailants, but also somewhere between them and whatever might be swimming below. One or two other herons glide by, letting out a throaty bark from time to time. It’s quite the raucous scene, and I consider going. But I watch a little longer—long enough to hear the gulls eventually lessen their accusations, and ultimately cease altogether. Then the silence (and the river passing). Then I go.