It has been raining this last week—
the first real rains of the year, waiting
till the end of djeran, 
and the beginning of makaru
right around the new moon.

The river looks cleaner, greener.
The beaches have emptied of people.
And Galbamaanup Lake Claremont 
has started to fill again
with water and birds.

The swans have come and gone and 
come again. The Pacific black ducks
have returned in great numbers,
as have the teals,
the wood ducks,
and the periphery-dwelling ibis 
(both white and
straw-necked).
The swamphens never left.
Crakes and rails are emerging
from the reeds.

Wayan the white-faced heron 
has carried on, alone among
his species. A couple of
white-necked herons
are hidden somewhere in the 
grasses and trees,
occasionally spooking the smaller
birds that aren’t used to them.

The small band of dotterels have remained,
as have the black-winged stilts,
now joined by others,
occasionally flapping to land
on top of one another.

But I have so far been surprised
to see no seagulls.

Then today I walked from eastern edge
to northern gazebo, and saw there
an egret, all white and clean.
And on the way back spotted
a couple of seagulls coming in to land
on water, though not with their feet out,
duck-style, but from circling heights 
and ‘landing’ on their bellies.

While among the black-winged stilts
I saw also yajingarong the red-necked
avocet dragging his mosquito spear
of a beak from side to side 
like a spoonbill (a representative of which
came and went again in recent days.)

I look again and the seagulls have increased
in numbers. 

I recall a couple of days ago walking
the edge and seeing all that grass, no
longer shining green in its newness,
but alive and swaying still—
and then felt with the wholeness
of the lake, and the Earth.

And today, feeling a renewed love
for this place, with its renewed
life and rain, I felt again connected
to all parts of it—this place and beyond—
noticing what I might not have
otherwise. Like the seagulls,
like the avocet and, remembering now also,
the first Eurasian coot—kidjibroon—
of the season—the first, behind which
great numbers will come,
walking his way through the now muddy
edge of the south-east corner
of the lake.