I walk today up by Lesmurdie Falls, the Saturday morning clearsky winter sun coming up over the edge of the ridge as the water timbles down. I climb up and along the ridgeline of the scarp, heading north. And there, on the plan below lit up by the morning sun, all of Perth—all of Whadjuk Country—spread out below and beyond. From the line of the hills that extends all the way north—following it towards Moore River I fancy—with the coast up there and the suburbs reaching; then looking back down along those rooftops and the ocean beyond, towards the buildings of the city, and the river that runs from beyond the hills I stand on, and comes snaking slowly across it all, meeting there, by the city’s feet, the other river coming in from the south and east, the Doomben Helena in between, joining the Swan near Guildford—all the streams and wetlands and lakes, all that water underneath. Then the flow of things towards and from the port of Fremantle, all the green of Kings Park and Bold Park, and all that’s left in the suburban in-between—the industry of Kwinana, and Serpentine lakes and river wanderings beyond Rockingham towards Mandurah, and of course those islands—Meandip Garden almost touching the tip of Preston Point, making something like a bay, then noolyamia Carnac Island, rocks, Wadjemup Rottnest, and all the water in between. Whadjuk country. All the streams of it—seen and unseen—felt—revealing themselves when there are organs to see.