Mouth of the Margaret River
and I’m walking up the southern bank 
to where it starts to curve and bend.

There’s someone fishing 
from the shore,
so I head back and sit on the grass
by the water’s edge.

There are a lot of fish in there—
in the brown water
amongst the grass 
near the bank;
I probably would have thought bream,
but they look more like mullet.
Whatever they are, they’re not
heading out the river’s
closed mouth until winter’s rains
push it open again,
if that’s where they’ll go.

I look over to all the fan flowers
on the northern side, closer to the ocean.
The wind brings the shouts of kids
up from the sea.

The fisherman walks past behind me and 
throws a line in a little further downriver.
I choose not to betray the fish at my feet
to him—but he can probably see them
anyway.

I walk up to where he was originally fishing
and look upriver. The wide wings and light
and dark of an osprey flying upriver, low 
on the northern side above the paperbarks.
I hear the sound of another one, high and 
shrill somewhere out of view.
There are more fish in the shallows here.

I can feel the power and presence
of the place a little further upriver.
I never go there,
but I feel it reaches out to me—
flows down on the bed
of river, flooding in.

I observe it from the place I make for it—
global reaches.
There is a conversation.

It ends with something like:
“Be responsible
for these deeper layers
in all the work
of the world,
human being.”

On my final evening in the forest,
I’m looking out at the bird bath
and there is wodan the bronzewing pigeon 
standing on the rim. 

Chunyart the 28 parrot is also there, 
all green and blue and yellow and black,
flapping around 
on the ground and 
on the other side of the rim from wodan.

Chunyart is making a lot of noise now,
but wodan is untroubled—
he stays put and waits for chunyart to go,
then leans down and drinks.

Soon wodan too has left, and chunyart returns.
Then another chunyart.
And before long they have also gone 
and the bath is empty again.

There is so much coming and going
from this cup of water in the forest—
like a kind of liquid eye of attention upon the world
existing also within the human being:
living things arriving, entering, bringing something,
leaving something, departing again.

As I do too,
the very next morning.

Guided to the intersection of the 
Marbeelup Chapman Brook
and the Djudjulyup Blackwood River
by wodan the bronzewing pidgeon.

He leads off the main road, then 
flies down the left side towards
the meeting waters,
away from the campground 
and old boat launch.

I sit under the big marri trees 
trees by the waters edge.
The sun is out and the water
is reflecting off the Djudjulyup
onto the branches and leaves.

The place is a strong place. 
The Noongar signs suggest
reflection.

And so I sit. 

And for some reason the reflected
movement of the water on the branches
speaks to me of all images
reflecting a reality in our own 
watery awareness—
a reflection through which 
we can choose to pass through to 
deeper layers of truth,
reality, being,
if we so wish.

I filled up the water in the bird bath
again today.
Soon after, chunyart the 28 was back. 
(I even startled one when I came outside.)

While sitting at the outdoor table
a red-capped parrot arrived 
on the branch above the bath, 
looking at me,
looking at the water, 
eventually dropping down
and drinking. 

Then came a smaller bird: grey, with dark head
and dark eye. He was cautious—
hopped around it from tree to tree, branch to branch.
He watched as a smaller bird from yesterday—
the one with the greenish tinge to its head—
checked things out.
Then he flew to the bath’s rim, hopped a couple of times, 
and jumped right in.

The small bird then returned and drank a little,
together with some friends.

And most recently a larger dark bird with white eyebrow
bent down for two small gulps
and was gone.

All of them have passed through the water, 
as the water has passed through them.
All of it passing also through me.

These beings of warmth 
on this warm day.

Some of the limestone has fallen at the south 
end of the beach, so it’s hard
to walk around the corner,
even at low tide. 
The welcome swallows are still there.

The water pours around the corner from the 
Southern Ocean, pushing up
into the Indian.

People wait by the jetty to see the 
small triangular and large rounded
stingrays. The rays cruise past
lazily in the shallows, their wings
rippling under the water.

People put in and pull out boats and dinghies 
at the ramp. The rays dodge trailers and boats
and hands and feet.

I take a swim a little further north. There’s
seaweed and limestone cloudiness
in the water. Someone points
to some dolphins 
about a hundred metres out.
I take in the warming sun 
after a cool night, and look out
at the old jetty stumps sticking out of the water,
and the island just off the mainland.

What is this place?
What is it really?
How can we ever know?
What am I doing here?
And the answer comes almost immediately,
even before I think I’ve formulated 
the mood of the question.

To help. To serve. To make better. 
And care. Surely this is 
the only reason for being anywhere.
Surely this is the only
task there really is.
Surely this is the only way anything 
will reveal itself truly.

Places transformed, transfigured
by the seeing—
by the seeing in thought—
by the ‘I’;
so that the I receives the
place as it pours in, 
the seeing process reversed;
then rays the essence 
of the seen places back out upon
the world again,
recreated,
as if the Earth 
can pass through the eye
of the I—
coming out a Sun.

I cleaned out the bird bath this morning
at this little place we sometimes stay at
in the middle of the forrest
near Karridale.

I poured out the old water and leaves,
rinsed it a couple of times to get
rid of some green on the tiled surface,
then filled it up with rainwater
via the pot I used to cook pasta
for dinner last night.
The water comes out clear, 
with a slight rainbow sheen
from the residue oil.

I tried to fill the dish so the birds don’t have to lean 
too far.

I did all this, because I hadn’t seen any
birds using it since I got here, whereas in previous years 
it was like a busy village well.

I leave it, forget about it, use my phone, 
come back outside, and look up to find
chunyart the ring-necked parrot—
twenty eight to most—landing on the ground, then
flapping over to the bath.
He must have seen me, no more 
than a few metres away,
no more than ten minutes after I filled it.

He stands with his back to me on the lip 
and leans down, 
gathering water in the bottom part of his beak I guess.
He is all green, with yellow neck, a red splash on his head.
Then his mate is coming in too,
shooing him off. And then this one is mirroring 
the process.

I have a shower, and then look out again soon after to find
a little family of small grey birds with slightly green backs,
drinking or flying through it. One after another.
I’m inside so they probably can’t see me.
One flies off, then another,
then another.

Is it this simple?

I see a world covered in 
two kinds of fires.
One destructive,
the other creative.
One is deliberately human,
the other makes use of us.

I see the need to foster
such creative fireplaces
so something can live on.

I see the need for spots of still water
where clear reflections are possible, 
like the reflections of karri trees.

I see the desire for places
where all winds blow gently
towards a centre;
where the ground is stable enough
to feel like it isn’t shaking.

Are these places the new 
Noah’s Arks?

Joojilyup Blackwood River, by the bridge
near the place they call Alexandra, 
on the Bibulmun side.

It’s a cloudy, cool day for summer.
The wind comes in off the Southern Ocean,
while the sun sneaks a peak 
through those alto clouds,
reflecting off the water.
The surface is mostly choppy—
a little wind-whipped—
except for a snaking flat line, 
like a winding passage 
of mirror glass up its centre.

I sit by an unused camping spot 
above the river’s edge.
Someone has managed to tie 
a long rope around the high branch
of a jarrah hanging out
over the water;
there are also marri, balgas,
zamias, peppermints,
and all sorts of smaller grasses.

I can hear cars crossing the bridge,
side to side.
Teenagers play on its underside,
screaming and swearing
and jumping in.

It seems to me this wide, brown river
demands something quieter, more reflective;
though I think it would also welcome
a loud song, striking right
into its heart, or emanating out therefrom.

I think of the spot further upriver where it
meets the Marbeelup* Chapman Brook.
Such waters as these seek to flow 
into us, through us, out again,
transformed.

*As named on signs at the intersection of these waters.

There are some places on Earth
more ‘enchanted’ than others—
a Western word.

And what in the West are called ‘fairies’
usually reside in the West.

But there is a small forrest
of jarrah and marri and
banksia
and orchids and Christmas spiders
and more
on Wardandi Noongar Country
unlike any other 
I’ve experienced here.

So much so that words
like enchantment and fairies
don’t seem too ‘out of place’.

To enchant usually means 
to attract or please, 
or to have a magical effect,
sometimes by casting a spell over.

But instead of being entranced,
such places can also be seen
as an entrance. 
Instead of dimming down,
being charmed or slumbering,
we can instead brighten up—
we can stay awake—
become, even, extra awake…

awake in such an entrance…

an entrance…

to the Whole Earth;
the Whole Self.

Bussell Highway, south of Vasse,
Wardandi Country. 
I have relatives who ran the general 
store here.
I don’t think I’ve every really been.

Yet this summer—this Birak—
I have been drawn out—
drawn through—
this place, again and
again. And in the four-
hour drive today, for 
some reason, this is the 
place that speaks to me 
most fully.

It says: “You’re back. 
I’m still here. 
Go on.
I come.”