Looking out onto the drying lake
with mostly teals, black ducks and
coots remaining—
some swamp hens, a couple of 
stilts and an avocet
in there too—levels probably at 
one metre on the gauge—
a slight westerly wind, blue
overhead. And then
I pause my going out into it,
and instead let it come in,
like a turning of the tide on
the coastline or river nearby,
though inwardly, all inside.

And then I find there is a part 
of the lake seeking to die—
but a kind of death by service—
as there is a part of me
seeking the same.

A kind of death into what?

A death into the Spirit of the Earth, I would say—
which is the same as
that most human part of each of
us…by any other name.