Early April and the paperbarks are flowering by the eastern edge of the lake, all light lemon yellow and inviting for the European honeybees. In there too are the introduced lorikeets squwarking and chirping, as I hear them even now inside my room, but much more so underneath the large tree by the lake’s edge. And then comes jakalak the red wattlebird, the soldier of birds around here—I don’t think I’ve ever seen it back down. But this day, this one lorikeet—all shrill and defensive over its paperbark flowers—shrieks and cries enough for jakalak to slowly walk backwards off the branch, until there’s nothing but air below his feet, and the wings spring into action again.
Author Archives: jbstubley
Raptors and Darter
Some days it seems you cannot walk out of your house without some kind of raptor darting overhead—this time either hobby or peregrine falcon—I’ve never been too good with raptors. And then, a moment later, another. And then, to top off all this darting, an actual darter.
Homeless by the Lake
There is a man under the picnic bench structure as you enter the lake from the east—he’s been there a while now, a couple of months at least. He’s been joined by a woman on some days, always by his old dog. He arrived with longer hair, now clean cut. He’s educating the locals about homelessness, and maybe something else. He has a shopping trolley with esky, a mat and blanket, a dog bowl and dog mat, a high-vis jacket and folding chair. It must be getting cold now in the evening air, in this the driest of summers for 150 years. He moves the chair as the sun moves. This morning he seems to have just come back from the nearby toilets or showers, or somewhere else nearby because it looks like he carries a newspaper. The dog is happy to see him arrive. I now remember him—or the woman—being on their phones from time to time. I say hi whenever I walk past and he’s looking my way. He always has a greeting, and a few words to say. Sometimes I see him talking to morning walkers. They seem to be listening. Last weekend the runners took back the picnic table for their event. Yesterday the lawn mower with leaf blower was right up against him. But today he is back in place again.
Cafe Dilibrit
There’s a dilibrit mud lark that lives near the lake who likes to frequent the window mirrorglass by the cafés and gym, and there come to meet his own reflection. He sings to/at it, flies at it, pecks at it. His high pitched singing, the clacking of beak on glass, the black and white flurry of wings—all things to contend with in this morning meeting.
Beach Puddles
Reminded now of granite ocean rocks near Denmark—the way the incoming tide washes in, rushes around one puddled area, then flows on to another level—the whole thing like a series of pools formed by the water’s moving, like a kind of natural watery sculpture—flowing form.
Beebidup Puddles
Somewhere near where the granite rocks replace some of the trees, just after rain, you’ll tend to see some puddles forming. We walk the lower trail and drink from the flowers of dripping bottlebrushes. And when I wonder if we’ve brought enough water, that’s when we see the puddles in front of us. The water has been caught by depressions in the rock—flowing down, if puddle is full, to lower ones—whole chains of puddles in some spots. I look for the highest ones in any area, take off my cap, bend down and kiss its surface, sucking through lips as I kiss it. It is clean and clear and fresh, maybe a few quartz pebbles on the bottom, reflecting nothing but clouds and sky and my own bending down to meet it.
Beebidup / Mt Lindsay Views to the West
We go on our wedding anniversary. Eleven years. Never been to Mt Lindsay and just went to check it out. Ended up hiking the whole thing. And from all the views on the way up, the way down, and at the peak, the thing that stays with me is the view to the west. So much forrest. Taking a selection, you could say no land has been cleared—all the way to where the sun will set—just the rising up-down of hills and lower areas, Mt Franklin somewhere near the furthest edge. When the sun comes out it casts shadows under the clouds, which blend with the dark green of trees, and sends them moving along the forrest bed. The whole thing is quiet, calm, though still with some wind, and alive. I wonder how many people might currently be in this whole spread of land, and reckon we could probably count them on not too many hands.
It’s a scene I’ll take with me into whatever city is next.
Lights Beach Sunsets
I like Lights Beach, and can’t believe I’ve never really been here before. Maybe it’s better on late March days like these when the wind is soft, and the light is soft, and the sunset is heading to the top of William Bay hills and rocks to the west—it glows the clouds a silver, then gold, then orange and red and pink. The waves keep crashing ashore in the bays below—the granite withstands most of their force.
Tall Trees on Bibbulmun Country
I’m further south, on the Bibbulmun Track, in Bibbulmun country, within the larger Bibbulmun country, and the trees are large. This is a bend in the Frankland River, populated by massive white-barked karris; as well as the large, red, knotted thickness and branching of tingle trees; plus some thick, straight-barked jarrah. There are large corky casuarinas, some balgas, zamias, marris and more. This part of the bend faces north. The trees are enormous, but the whole place feels soft, quiet, like the cold water river by the hut, flowing slowly through the sunshine and granite.
Paperbark Season
Can’t remember if I was told this or put two and something else together, but come March the paperbark are flowering, with a similar or same name as a fish running in nearby ocean—place even named similarly—ready to be caught and cooked wrapped in the papery bark. Anyway, they’re flowering again, big and light-yellowy bold, almost white, like big Christmas trees with countless lights—whether on nearby streets or at the lake—the lake where there’s also one or two with red flowers, deeper and darker, almost like a bottlebrush, throwing the whole thing into sudden contrast. It seems sudden because I’ve been away for a week. And I know by the time I am back from another few days away they will again be past their peak. All decorations eventually need to be taken down.
John Stubley 