Back at the mouth of the river,
with Katie this time.
Saturday morning
southerly and sun. 

I put down a blanket and
flick a disgarded prawn head—
likely left by a fisherman—
into the water.

There is the brown water,
the limestone on the bank 
of the other side,
the small peppermints,
the coastal daisybush,
the fan flowers.

On the water arrives yet
the Pacific black duck.
I say hello.
He steps out of the water
and onto the shore in front of us.
He finds another prawn head 
I must have missed—
all hard head and shell—
and gulps it down.
Another piece, all shell,
he leaves behind.

I stand and he slides back 
into the water.
I look upriver. Wind seems
to blow in from the mouth and from 
upriver at the same time,
as the water bends here almost 90 degrees.

I spot the limestone
of what lies further up there—
what lives further up there,
further in here,
millenia wide,
millenia deep,
meeting here,
in the cave of my self,
by grace,
something of the future light—
the light of the earth,
of human beings—
seeking to illuminate all.