We are deep into the season of adulthood, butting up against the season of fertility. And still the water hasn’t come. Kwirlam the swamp hen has been running around the lake today, chasing one another, and there is plenty of room to run. There’s mud and grass, but not much water, and only a few other birds in the morning sun: a couple of shelducks, three black winged stilts and a handful of little noodilyarong black fronted dotterels. Other than that, it’s a wide open field to chase and hunt and flap and fly and run. And they do, one on one, past each other, their red beaks low low to the ground, their black bodies moving on their whirling legs, their purple chests bent down. Sometimes they move so fast they might as well spread their wings a little and fly for a time, their feet protruding behind—until they come to land again—then letting them down early, reaching for the ground. 

Seasons have their laws to follow, even if the rains don’t come.