Lately I’ve been walking—
late Kambarang, early Birak—
through the unburnt kindling
of the shedded skin
of introduced eucalypts.

They’ve been planted on the 
old golfcourse
now parkland
by the edge of Galbamaanup 
Lake Claremont.

Ghost gums, I think.
Their bark crackles,
crispy,
like rock-hard cardboard,
as I walk over it,
even on a bed of spongy grass
beneath.

It sounds to me of fires
unmet, unspent,
appointments unkept.

I cannot burn it—
I’d be locked up;
anyone would.

Here, conditions are
no longer right.
Here, there is no longer
fire.

But I, I continue
to also walk this shoreline—
between old and new,
between burned and unburned,
between fire and no fire,
with other humans
too,
aflame.

Arriving at the gazebo today,
the lake arrives too—
the world beyond it
also flowing in,
down each and every tributary
to this place.

And I realise,
I am the lake.
Realised by sight.

I am the kwirlam swamp hen
feeding its young the softer
part of the rushes,
then saving some for myself.

I am the yet Pacific Black duck
mother and ducklings in a line
further out in the centre.

I am the coot diving down 
with back legs frogging
to get the best grass.

I am the marangana wood ducks,
the nyimarak shelducks,
the yet under the figtrees
waiting for what’s falling.
I’m the cygnets there,
growing slowly further
from my parents.
I’m the water level also falling,
just above 2m now
on the guage.

I’m the ibis that think about landing,
the wayan white-faced heron
looking for land.

I’m the flowering thick-leaved blue fan flowers,
the white blossom of paperbarks, tea trees
and other maleleucas.
I’m the brown of the water
with green grass emerging.

The kakak small pied cormorant
working the edges for frogs
I am; 
the frog that’s calling no longer.

The dragonflies blue or grey or red,
that’s me; the welcome swallows
with nest in gazebo
now fallen,
this year no longer necessary.

I’m the egret over by the east side. 
Boodoo the bluebill and kadar the musk duck I cannot
see, that’s me. 
Same as yerrigan the turtle down there,
unseen.
The beginning flowering of eucalypts
with bees, also me.

The solitary swan that preens; the 
cygnet now out on its own,
now back to the parents,
I am. 

This lake—that I am.
All that is firm,
and all that flows through.
The world flowing through. 
All that I am.

Day before new moon
and there are late Kambarang,
second-spring early-summer storms,
with hale and lightening, 
flash flooding and thunder.

We barely touch the edge of it.

At night, after sunset
I go out, looking east, 
seeing lightening
brighten up horizon clouds,
above and beyond hills,
probably with water running,
out into the wheatbelt.

I turn towards the west,
where the last light of sun
that’s left 
lingers a little longer.
There is a slight offshore wind,
but nothing really.
It is dark on the ocean shoreline,
with the lights of the port
and the light of the horizon
and ships
winking in from the edges.

I leave my gear
and jump in,
almost fully dark 
in this spot,
and go under.

New moon moisture.
New moon dark.

Pacific black ducklings—
four—
are paddling out in front of their mother,
no longer in her watery wake
and slipstream paddling—
now the mother glides behind.

The swan cygnets
are spending time
away from their parents.

The grasses reach up from below 
the sinking water’s surface.

There are places on Earth
that teach of 
the mysteries of old.
We go there today,
carrying
the mysteries of the now,
while tomorrow’s
mysteries come trickling in,
seedlike,
on the stream of the future.

I come to the lake bringing something today,
and I feel like it brings something back.
There is kwirlam the swamp hen with
young on the path by the east viewing area.
They try to cross the path, pause,
go back.
Nearby, there are three yet Pacific black ducklings
with mother.

At the southern end
there are the first four hardheads of the season,
suddenly at home, with white beak tips,
among all the other ducks—
pink ears, wood ducks, Pacifics—
and coots and swans.
There are two quenda
nosing amongst leaves
in open sight.
There are two cygnets 
lying on the bank 
apart from the rest of their family
for the first time I’ve seen.
Then I see a black duck
go under the water to pick up
a dropped fig—the first time
I’ve ever seen one dive like that.

I walk to the gazebo, passing 
more swamp hen young,
as well as fresh coot chicks.
And when I get there,
the swan with single cygnet
paddles right over to me,
and looks me in the eye, all
black and red, so close I could touch it.
It raises its head,
then drops it again,
as if inviting some food to fall
in a similar way.
The cygnet comes over too,
all grey and fluffy,
paddling eventually
with one foot raised
and resting.
And then they are
and I am
gone.

Today the lake is as clear as I’ve 
ever seen it.
No wind. Full sun. 
The level is still high,
but at the gazebo 
I can see the bottom easily.

I spend a long time looking down
before I begin to see what is
coming back up.
Rising from the other direction—
from the brown depth below—
is the growing grass.
Strands of it, green, like
a mini underwater forest.

I experience some kind of 
turning insideoutness
at this thought.
Something of the lake looking back.

And as I do that,
I see a subtle movement 
in the ground cover
of the underwater garden below—
a turtle slowly going,
burying itself into some hole
for a while,
before moving on
at a depth usually unseeable.
And then I spot another one,
and, together, they go off
underneath the gazebo
into the darkness.

I leave the gazebo and head back,
and at the first real bend in the bank,
there I spot another one in the shallows.
Three turtles in the lake’s eye,
looking back.

It’s warm this morning at the lake,
with a strong easterly blowing in.
I’m standing at the eastern edge
watching a couple of large,
grey cygnets paddle in front
of their mother.
There are coots in the foreground
among the reeds;
pink-ears on the other side;
two lots of two janjarak
black-winged stilts fly by,
barking, searching for a 
spot of dry bank to the south.

The mood is quiet,
expectant. The kind of mood
a raptor could drop into.

And suddenly there he is, 
all large and rusty orange,
wheeling over the far bank—
a swamp harrier most likely—
coots scurrying under bushes
shrieking; haw rarely
they run in fear.

He glides along low over the bank,
then back along, then across to the eastern side,
out of view, no crows or koolbardie magpies
in chase.

That maybe explains also the janjarak
and their barking, their moving.

Funny when you can begin to see the linking
threads of a place—
words turning into sentences, stories.
Funny when the mood begins to come through
what you can read.
Funny when that mood is filled 
with raptors,
with meaning.

Friday at the lake and everything seems
very relaxed. 
Kwirlam the swamphen and kidjibroon the coot
are doing there thing on the reeds.
Seven yet Pacific black ducklings glide by
with their mother in tow.
A young wardong crow with eyes still black
alights on the branch
of a paperbark above.
The wind is southeast, but light.
The sky blue, with an alto cloud or two.

Under the figs are marangana wood ducks,
yet, maali the swan with four cygnets now large,
two wimbin pink ears, and a few white ibis.

I remark to a couple of grandparents
babysitting how rare it is to see
yet nesting. He replies, ‘Yeah, you can see coots
and swans make their nests from reeds,
but these guys use the bank.”

I wonder if I sound educative when I talk to others,
or when I write this. And then I wonder about the bank itself—
a rare commodity after this wet winter, late kambarang,
and still above 2.05 metres on the ruler.
Bank is prime real estate.
I look again at all the birds
on the bank, under the figs.

The water is clear and still and light-filled 
on the way to the gazebo.
Perfect for spotting yerrign the turtle, if there are any,
but I can’t find them.

At the gazebo, some thick English accents
are excited by the swallows,
the swans, the wagtails: “There’s your willy,”
one man says to another as he takes a selfie
with a woman. I don’t think any of us get it,
until he points the wagtail out again,
and they go.

I’m still looking for turtles, or janjarak the 
black-winged stilt, but can’t see any.
There aren’t even any wimbin pink-ears here.
No musk. While looking I’m trying to remember
what was here yesterday.
No kooridoor the egret either,
on the eastern bank.

Coots and swans and kanamit the welcome swallow.
I give up searching for anything,
and try to ease into the relaxed Friday morning.
And just when I’ve given up on finding more, 
right as I’m watching the coots dive down,
head first, with web-feet working,
coming up like a bubble with a beakfull
of green grass,
there also appears, a few metres beyond,
boodo the blue-billed duck.
Sometimes he appears like this
and I catch my breath, startled,
his head all black, body brown,
and beak sky blue.
He’s looking around, likely just come up from the depths
along the edges.
Coots swim around him.

Then I notice a night heron all orange
in the reeds to the east.

And then a raptor appears from the west, flying east, slightly rufous
in colour—kestrel?—chased and swooped by a cloud of swallows.

Further on, by the island, 
there’s a female musk duck 
(though now I wonder if she wasn’t in fact a bluebill)
who looks at me once, then 
dives back 
down under.

Patches of alto clouds in an otherwise
blue sky, Wednesday, full moon 
rising later tonight.

Wind from the west,
cooling what’s left of the last
couple of days.

At the lake again, 
and there are baby swamphens,
baby coots,
four small yet—Pacific black ducks—
following in the water-wake of their mother.

Under the figs crowd marangana the wood duck
with more yet, 
swans with four large, grey cygnets,
more swamphens with chicks.

Up at the gazebo
a woman with American accent
is excited to tell me about kanamit the welcome swallow.
We talk turtles a while.

She goes, and I look out and spot
half the flock of yesterday’s janjarak
black-winged stilts 
on grey logs.
There are wimbin pink-eared ducks,
as usual lately,
and for the first time confirmed this season,
a couple of small Australasian grebes.
To the east, there’s a couple of kooridoor
egrets in the shallower water,
and a musk duck between me and them.
White ibis fill the bushes nearby.

The wind blows gently across.
The edges of the lake are many shades of green
and lit up here and there in yellow
by flowering paperbarks and other melaleucas.

And suddenly I’m grabbed by this thought again—
that all of this, that everything, 
and everywhere,
seeks ultimately
to be in service of the spirit
of the Earth as a whole,
the spirit of love,
given form.

And that from this service, this becoming,
a new world will be born.

The foundation
for what comes next.