The lake has dropped below the measurement gauge—
its base sits discoloured and dry.

The remaining water is shallow
and the colour of coffee or, more precisely, cappuccino.

Five days ago, marangana the wood duck was on the edges,
now he’s gone; 
janjarak the black winged stilt was also here,
now gone.

Up till yesterday there were two adolescent swans—
the last of the young this season.
I was beginning to wonder if their wings would be strong enough
to carry them out before the water dried up.
Today they too are gone.

By the water, that leaves kwirlam the swamphen
who will not go.
Plus about a dozen black ducks, some in the water,
some on logs, some wading the mud on the edges.
There might be a grey teal or two among them.

Kanamit the welcome swallow flitters above from time to time.
Manatj the corella lands on dead branches
and climbs down to the water.

Then there are the other usual suspects.

But mostly we’re headed to dryness,
departure and death.

Though what’s on the other side of that—
beyond just seasons?

The spirit of this place—any place—
still exists. 
And seeks to serve—
the whole, the Earth…
and what comes next.