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.

Standing at the lake
by the gazebo in Kambarang
second spring 
again.

I’m pondering
the way the lake
is like an eye 
in the ecosystem looking out—
I’m wondering what it’s looking upon.
Is the body the whole catchment?
Is the lake the whole catchment?

Once it looked upon a cosmos
full of life and wording.
Now that same life is in the Earth,
wording forth, like a spring.
This place is not a spring,
but the deeper springing
is here yet.
I’m pondering the stream 
that flows into the world
from the East.
I’m pondering this older,
Indigenous stream.
And I’m pondering 
the Western one.

The Western one is newer,
and yet needs to begin
to move,
to meet the other streams
more truly,
at greater depth.
Where are those who truly
stand in this stream?

As I’m pondering this a turtle rises,
sticking its head above the waterline,
then quickly dives again.
It does this three times,
and is gone.

Today at the gazebo
there’s sunlight,
some shade,
and the flatter side
of a south-westerly wind.

I can see some of the grass below
and keep an eye out for turtles.

A man arrives and says to his walking partner:
“I’m just going to see if there are any turtles.”
He sticks his head over the eastern edge a while—
under where the swallows enter their nest—
and then the west side,
and goes.

I’m watching a single cygnet try to pluck
some of the strands of grass
from its mother, 
then father,
then mother again.

Then there’s the kadar episode.

Eventually I too turn to go,
noticing a woman photographing
a single swan, preening itself
on a small piece of shoreline
in the shade.

A turtle would be nice to see,
(maybe I think ‘and a nice photo’).
So I start scanning for one,
then think of how that changes
one’s whole experience—
when one goes out especially looking 
for something—and I’m reminded of my
time as a dolphin spotter.
Don’t get me wrong, I think
both can be done.
But the inner gesture 
is the one to really watch.

So I cease my extractive scanning
and look back over at the woman
photographing the swan
as I walk up the little bridge to the shore.
And just then, having given up
the search for anything,
I spot a turtle
on the western side. 

I cannot help myself—
I call over to the woman—
“turtle” and point down
as he sticks his head
above the water.
She nods her head,
seeming to not
understand.
I point again.
He lingers,
then begins to go back down.

She seems interested and slowly comes over.
The turtle is moving gradually lower
but I can still see him
as he goes.
I continue pointing.
“Turtle.”
She says nothing,
and I’m not sure if she can see.
I take off my polarised glasses
and can’t see much.
I offer her mine.
She fumbles with a ‘thank you’
and a nod—Japanese?

And then the turtle is gone.

I move to go.
She stays on.
I say “have  a good day.”
She smiles again: “thank you.”
And stays looking at the water
as I head off.

***

That makes four times this last month—
once popping up, once swimming,
once apparently dead near the jetty,
and this morning.

At least two, as many as four.

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.