Birthing into the season of birthing,
mornings starting to warm,
many things already birthed,
like wildflowers and baby birds,
some flowers already withering.

There’s smoke in the air—
a couple of weeks ago I spoke
with someone from the relevant authority
who said they’d be burning non-stop for weeks,
‘so if you don’t like smoke
get out of the city!’

It hangs now, under the lower
alto blanket of clouds,
the sea breeze not yet in.

At the lake, kidjibroon to coot 
fights with kwirlam the swamphen—
reminds me that wardong the crow
chased boodalung the pelican
above the river by 
east fremantle last night
as the tide came in.

Nyimarak the shelducks have one duckling
who’s survived—it follows closely
in line behind the mother,
the father is last.

One maali swan has four cygnets
growing each day,
swimming for the ‘plop’ sound 
that falling Moreton Bay figs make.

I walk past where we saw a fresh-born swamphen 
on Saturday. I don’t see it today.

At the gazebo I hear a coot going under
and turn to see yerrigan the turtle
half way between the surface
and the bottom, swimming away.
It’s the most I’ve seen of one so far this season.

The welcome swallows are feeding their young
in the nest at the top of the underside of the gazebo,
their droppings a dead giveaway.
They flit in and out, like thoughts, pausing 
here and there on signs or wooden ledges.
How could one not feel connected to such things?

In the water a coot couple with nest 
continue their mating ritual.
It is over in a brief flapping of wings
and preening.

There is such wisdom to all this animal life,
I see, as a swan flaps low over the water
to the north, pulling up short of another,
before they paddle side by side. 
Wimbin the pink ears stay by their box.
So much wisdom—a guiding genius
smarter than us, leading with hands unseen.