Today I go further upriver
on the incoming tide,
with the wind.

I walk past the native verge plants
and mansions,
and river.

I walk up the hill under the power line,
and even before I reach the top
I’m thinking of
the dancing of those men
who stopped
in 1879.
What started then?

And suddenly I feel the line that carried the dancing.
and the line that carried something beyond.
I feel the lines meeting in me.
The same or similar.
Differently.

We seem to be able to easily
accept the idea 
that in an organisation
like a company
a board of directors or similar
sets the culture of the whole—
that the ‘idea‘ they hold guides
all the parts—guides the rest.

Yet in nature we seem to want to get to ever-smaller 
increments as means by which we seek
to understand what really drives the whole—
cells, molecules, microbes, atoms, nuclei.

This, in a company, would be akin
to finding the smallest item on a balance sheet—
finding the smallest asset
such as a paperclip
and saying that this is what really determines
the behaviour of the company
as a whole.

It is the idea that guides the company—
that guides any social organisation.
Likewise, it is the idea that guides
the natural organisation.

It is the idea that guides the meta story,
the story, the poem, 
not the words and letters.

That the whole is more than the sum of the parts
is true enough, but it is the ‘whole’ that 
determines the direction of the organism
through coming into being in each of the parts.

And so we come to the whole—
to the idea—
via the parts.

The idea in the words and letters,
in the animal organism,
in the landscape organism,
in the social organism,
in the human organism.

Why stand on our heads 
when we can walk on our feet?

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.

I don’t recall ever having seen a bee hive
in swarm before.
But in the last few weeks I have seen three.

The first on the north side of Galbamaanup
Lake Claremont with Katie and Sol
talking about all things caring for Country.

The bees hung from a eucalyptus branch
in a loose form of their own making—
of their own bodies.

The next was after leaving a Noongar Land Enterprise
strategy and website launch—how Indigenous people
are caring for Country on land they own.
The bees parted ways for us 
as we slowly left the Bentley Technology Park
in our car.

The last time was last weekend, when Katie,
Shenali and I walked the usual stretch of lake,
talking our usual Saturday morning talk
of that place,
and right where the paths diverge
on the north western edge by the watery paperbarks
another swarm began to fill the air,
flying towards the sun.

The sound of them.
So many wings flitting the air.

In the last few days it’s mostly in the flowers I hear them—
paperbarks and eucalypts—
not swarming—
merely going about their business—
in the light
in the sun.