The first real cold front of the year has arrived, bringing lightening, thunder, wind and rain. Up to this the rest has been mere tropical lows dipping down, I would say. But the lake today looks almost full, or full to where the grass has advanced over the long summer at least. And the scouters of the last few weeks have brought back mates. From four yet Pacific black ducks yesterday we now have three or four dozen. The janjarak black winged stilts have remained in numbers—half to one dozen. Six nymiarak shelducks chase one another—one stands near five swans that sit among the grass of the western bank, pulling it up. Kwirlam the swaphen is still here of course, now outnumbered. Kanamit the welcome swallow swells up and down in a moving cloud in the south east corner. And about a dozen marangana wood ducks keep under the fig trees in their usual spot to the south. It’s almost as if they’re all adopting their positonings. Anyone seing the lake today and at its equivalent level at the end of last year might say: ”This place does not change! Even the very birds are the same.” 

I look around and the black and shelducks are actually swimming; and actually gliding down and landing on the water—although I do watch two black ducks come into land where a dozen or so stand amongst the puddles between the red-coloured ground cover, reaching out their feet to the water and, abruptly, suddenly, pulling up short. The swans on the other side, mostly in the grass, still stand. The wood ducks do a bit of both. And the ibis seem to have moved even further north, preferring the dryer bits. No more seagulls today, they seem to be a kind of pioneer, a first responder, though easily despondent; something in them knowing this is not typically their place, or mostly only with first rains.

While something in all these other birds seems to know this is their place, waiting patiently for first rains, sending testers, and then come the numbers. Something in them seems to know. A kind of patterning. But not a kind of thinking. There’s no doubt, or judging. They are following a kind of topography. A kind of languaging. One spoken here for eons. They do as they must—as they are directed by a patterning of the seasons without room for any reasoning or freedom. Not like us. We have to chose something—to live in accordance with a greater lawfullness…or not. One is naturally nature. In the other—something must be created.