At the lake today there are 
four janjarak black-winged stilts,
two nyimarak shelducks,
many kwirlam swamp hens,
and one yet Pacific black duck.
No swans. No white-faced herons.
No white-necked herons.

I walk around the southern wetter end
towards the gazebo,
where the lake is still a lake of grass.
I sit and watch the wind
blow through the green and drying stems—
a strong morning wind from the east.

I stay and sit with it.
The whole comes creeping in.
The spirit of the Earth as a whole,
of humanity.
And it’s clear to me, in that moment,
that this has always been present 
in this place—always worked with,
always seen—
before it had another name.