The first real cold front of the year has arrived, bringing lightening, thunder, wind and rain. Up to this the rest has been mere tropical lows dipping down, I would say. But the lake today looks almost full, or full to where the grass has advanced over the long summer at least. And the scouters of the last few weeks have brought back mates. From four yet Pacific black ducks yesterday we now have three or four dozen. The janjarak black winged stilts have remained in numbers—half to one dozen. Six nymiarak shelducks chase one another—one stands near five swans that sit among the grass of the western bank, pulling it up. Kwirlam the swaphen is still here of course, now outnumbered. Kanamit the welcome swallow swells up and down in a moving cloud in the south east corner. And about a dozen marangana wood ducks keep under the fig trees in their usual spot to the south. It’s almost as if they’re all adopting their positonings. Anyone seing the lake today and at its equivalent level at the end of last year might say: ”This place does not change! Even the very birds are the same.” 

I look around and the black and shelducks are actually swimming; and actually gliding down and landing on the water—although I do watch two black ducks come into land where a dozen or so stand amongst the puddles between the red-coloured ground cover, reaching out their feet to the water and, abruptly, suddenly, pulling up short. The swans on the other side, mostly in the grass, still stand. The wood ducks do a bit of both. And the ibis seem to have moved even further north, preferring the dryer bits. No more seagulls today, they seem to be a kind of pioneer, a first responder, though easily despondent; something in them knowing this is not typically their place, or mostly only with first rains.

While something in all these other birds seems to know this is their place, waiting patiently for first rains, sending testers, and then come the numbers. Something in them seems to know. A kind of patterning. But not a kind of thinking. There’s no doubt, or judging. They are following a kind of topography. A kind of languaging. One spoken here for eons. They do as they must—as they are directed by a patterning of the seasons without room for any reasoning or freedom. Not like us. We have to chose something—to live in accordance with a greater lawfullness…or not. One is naturally nature. In the other—something must be created.

There’s been some more rain overnight and the seagulls and ibis and Pacific black ducks are back at the lake. The water has spread almost all the way to the jetty on the southern side, and has started to link up with the other puddles slightly north by the rushes and reeds. There must be about 30 gulls on the water’s eastern edge. I don’t see the ibis at first, but they’re even further east amongst the red ground-covering plant, dipping their long protrusions of beaks down into the dryer (but now-slightly-less-so) parts of the lake, claiming something there brought by rain to new life…and death. There are half a dozen black-winged stilts, two Pacific black ducks paddling in the centre, sending little ripples out from their efforts—plus another two I see a bit later in the northern part, sitting down upon the water, hoping to float, but then having to stand again. I wonder where the shelducks have gone—none left this morning, but then I spy a group of six larger ducks circling above the lake, before flying to the east; they have white underwings, but from this angle I can’t tell if they’re shelducks or wood ducks or what—amazing what a change of perspective will do; I watch them fly by, and turn back to the lake, only to see two shelducks come in from the north—were they two that peeled off?—to land on a shallow stretch, by the jetty, only recently wet. 

But before the ducks I watch all the seagulls, previously quiet, start up a gradually growing racuous, first one, then another, growing louder, then many, then in a small group they suddenly, noisily, lift off, with most of the others joining them, except three, then two, as the rest fly higher in a noisy white cloud, disappearing off to the south west—ocean or river; a third then reappears and lands near one of the others, while the more solitary gull stands by the water’s edge to the north. And if I hadn’t seen their great departure and had only arrived now I would have thought there had only been but three gulls at the lake this morning (plus kwirlam the purple swapmhens frolicking to the north, and kanamit the welcome swallow flying low overhead, and dilibrit the magpie lark and djidi djidi the wagtail in the mix. the sound of the grey butcherbird, kookaburras to the south and east dipping down for food, the odd wardong on the water’s edge, half a dozen dotterels, a little buff banded rail suprising me not far from my feet,  and a faroff bird on dead tree limb in the northern part of the lake—a kite maybe—plus all the rest.) For what’s revealed in a moment must be joined to other moments, as best we can, in imagination—forward and backwards—resting as we must on the data of these momentary bits, and our own inner activation. But still, nice to be reminded of the bits we must miss.