The water levels were still down this morning
even after some weekend rain.
On first glance the lake looks empty.
Something looks like a bird hunched
on the other side—white with dark wings—
as well as da ark clump near the water’s centre—
both of which are doing their best
dead-log impersonations.
I spot the movement of two janjarak
black-winged stilts near the jetty
and begin walking that way.
No swamp hens to be seen or heard.

On the way the black clump begins to move—
maali the swan, uncoiling its neck with red beak tip,
then recoiling it back again.

I look over towards the jetty, almost there.
Wayan the white-faced heron is standing on it.
On the lake in front—four janjarak,
plus two nyimarak shelducks.

I walk to the gazebo and back
but spot no other birds beside
dooram dooram the singing honeyeater
and four karak red-tailed black cockatoos
flying over.

On passing the jetty again,
wayan is still there,
nyimarak and the janjarak too.
The sun is shimmering off the
surface of the windblown water
for a moment, maali amongst it.
And I can’t help thinking that 
the sun is not only on the surface,
but also within the water,
and also above.
And then I have walked past the reflection,
such is the small size of the water.

And then, when I’ve made it back
to the eastern shoreline beginnings—
seeing one swamphen near the reeds—
I hear the high bark of the janjarak
and then the loud honk of the shelducks
as they fly towards the water’s centre 
and a suprised maali.
Then the white-necked heron has 
given himself away, moving with long white
neck also towards the centre, next to 
the swan.
The white-faced heron on the jetty, all grey
besides the face, I can no longer see.
And in a flash, just for a moment,
I see, between the shooting branches and leaves
of the eucalyptus tree, a large brown raptor flying high,
flying south.

I look around for wayan the white-faced heron
a while longer, and see him towards the southern edge
of the water, away from the jetty.

The whole scene is alive—
Is alive with light.
Not only on its surface.
But from up above.
And within its centre.

Today at the lake
I spent more time in the one spot
than I have been lately.
At first it seemed like there was
just the usual janjarak black
winged stilts—four in all today.

But after a while, the rushes
and sedges and paperbark branches
in front of me came to life.
Usually filled only with grass birds or 
reed warblers, now there were
wrens, as well as small green birds,
round, and in some numbers—so much so
that I would have called them silvereyes,
if not for their lack of silver eyes.
And then a slightly larger bird 
with a tail verging on fan,
like a fantail,
but not quite,
and with white eyebrows above the eyes
like a wagtail,
though not quite as white.

I reflected then, on the great range
of beingness—the spectrums that exist between
one known thing and another…inhabited
by being.
Humbling. Inspiring. 

At that moment a yet—Pacific black duck—
came in and landed with a jolt on the dry mud
by the edge of the water that’s left.

And I spotted two tiny moving angles
by the norther tip of the lake’s water—
one looked like a dotterel, with black sash
across its chest, the other more like a sandpiper.
But then one flew over the other
and they took off together
and I couldn’t tell you with my naked eyes
whether it was one or the other.

The world is full.
And then fuller again.

Infinite, given the right conditions.

***  

PART 2

All of part one while a helicopter
hovered above Claremont
like a testing distraction.
Can you stay focussed?
Life amid life.

And only upon reading the newspaper
the following day was it clear
what had happened:
a man had driven a car off Claremont jetty 
into the river.

Second last day with nephew in town
and we’re back at the lake.

One yet Pacific black duck,
eight janjarak black-winged stilts,
one swan, surprisingly,
standing in water with beak
tucked back in upon itself.

At one point kwirlam the 
swamphens scatter
back into the reeds.
I think raptors.
And sure enough two appear 
to the north,
circling around one another.

We’re getting to the deeper levels 
of caring for places.
Next day, last day, with nephew
and my wife.
A handful of janjarak left, 
one yet there yet,
two swans now.

We talk about where this is all going—
from the side of the beginning,
from the other side.
Both directions,
both streams converging
on the same love;
on the same world love;
on the same spirit of the Earth
as a whole,
that finds itself
in us.

Two days after rain at the lake
and water levels continue to drop.
The birds that came—Pacific black ducks,
seagulls, a heron—have all left again.
Those that remain—stilts, a couple of ibis,
welcome swallows—
are all much fewer in number.

Of course there is always the swamphen
who never leaves.
This morning he is up on perches
in places.

I walk to the gazebo.
Across to the east is the sound
of a cloud of smaller birds.
Below, some more swamphen dig
in the muddy shallows for 
something they can grip between 
their toes and crunch 
with their red beaks
now covered in mud.

The grass blows a little in a gust of breeze.
There is a noolarga black-faced cuckoo shrike
on top of a dead branch
looking down. He’s as grey as
the wood he stands on—
other than his face, that is.
Then I see another nearby.
Then another.
I look for a fourth, but 
there are only three.
Two fly off, then the other.
One returns to a nearby branch
for a moment,
scattering some welcome swallows,
his wings twitching nervously,
the way shrikes seem to do.

The place fills me with its life.
How can it not?

I think of all the knowledge 
that lives here,
as it does in other places too.
And I think of how, if we
receive it in the right name—
in the right service—
of the spirit of the Earth as a whole—
of the love of the Earth—
that such knowledge
can become the common property
of not just individuals
but of all humanity.

There’s a place an Elder 
has mentioned but not
taken us to.

He simply nodded ahead and said,
“Men’s danceground at the end 
of that street—last dance recorded
in 1879.”

I went down there once, years ago,
in an attempt to feel my way
into the place.
It might also have been the dinner I ate,
but I remember throwing up at home
that night. By the next day 
I was fine.

Yesterday I rode past that area again,
as I have done several times
over the years.

I didn’t walk in this time,
but as I rode past,
one particular spot 
seemed to call out.

It seemed both the call of an old song
and the song of what the Earth has become.
It seemed very specific
to this particular place,
but also very specific
to the Earth as a whole,
and very specific
to the heart of 
the human being…
the place where I heard it.

It makes sense—March 2025—
that in the same month as a lunar eclipse
there would be—two weeks later—
a solar eclpise,
and in between 
the equinox.

All things being equal.
First, the full Moon is eclipsed (lunar)
by the Earth between it and the Sun,
all three in a line.
Then the Moon shrinks a little each day
until two weeks later it is new again,
fully dark, on the other side of the Earth,
between the Earth and Sun,
eclipsing one from the other,
but the Sun for us (solar).
All while the Sun crosses the Earth’s
middle equating line, heading north.

And so the ecplises must take place
on the days when the Moon crosses
the Sun’s path,
but at this time of year also on the day of 
(or just before or after)
the Moon crossing the equator.

The special ingredient then, in this month,
is that peak north and peak south Moon
happen almost at mid point between both eclipses.
That is, the Moon is mid sky at full and new,
crossing the equator as the Sun does,
and therefore first being eclipsed by the Eath,
then eclipsing the Sun for us.

All well and good, but what is the quality 
of such a thing for us on Earth?
The days around the full moon and lunar ecplise 
bring clouds and rain and sometimes sun and rainbows.
Earth is worked on by both Sun and Moon.
The air is charged, electric. Meelup Beach is full of people
watching, clapping, swimming, dancing.
The days around new moon are very, very windy
from the east north east, with some rain
on its tail. There is a massive earthquake 
the day before in Myanmar. And I am
sick in bed. Sun cut off from Earth.

My cousin gives me an elaborate 
explanation on tides 
based on connections to 
full and new moon (supposedly larger ‘spring’ tides 
when sun and moon and Earth are in a line)
as well as half moon (supposedly ‘neap’ tides
when the moon and sun
are at right angles
in relation to the Earth.)

It is a logical explanation.
There are websites that say the same.

But when I observe the reality,
again and again
I see different factors
at work, at least
here on Whadjuk Country—
in Perth.

Here, a peak north or peak south moon 
(the moon highest or lowest in the sky)
corresponds to higher highs
and lower low tides.
While a mid-sky moon
corresponds
to mid or mild tidal ranges,
compact,
often leading to two highs or lows in a day.

Some explanations are tempting
in their generality and application.
But only those reached
through the particular
have any validity.

Walking Bold Park with nephew 
and I’m inviting him to 
come up with new names for things.

Things like spiders high in trees,
Zamia palms/jiragee,
Zamia resin or sap, tuart trees,
Banksia cones, pine cones,
pine trees,
bayern or coastal pigface,
magpies and more.

I invite him to look at the thing 
for as long as is needed
in order to create an exact replica
in the mind.
Then once that mental image is there,
to let it go, and stay only with the
feeling of the thing that remains,
lingering a while.

Then to let go of that feeling of pine, or zamia resin, 
or koolbardie the magpie, go,
and see what name, if any, arises 
in the will.

He notes, as I do,
that it is easy to let
an associative name arise—what something
may look like is especially tempting 
for us both. 

We stumble through each.
And then I say the existing name—
in English, Noongar if I have it.
Standing in front of it,
or holding it in our hands.

“Spider.”
“Zamia…jiragee.”
“Resin.”
“Tuart.”
“Banksia…bullkarla”
“Pine.”
“Cone.”
“Coastal pigcafe…bayern.” 
“Magpie…koolbardie.”

These are the single words, I realise,
of a longer story—nouns, names.
Nouns need adjectives, verbs, adverbs.
Words need sentences, paragraphs,
stories, poems.

Whether rock, plant, animal, human…
landscapes and ecosystems. All names.

Moving from the earth of it, to the water, 
air and fire.

I try to join the names of Bold Park
and Kings Park—-to go there in looking
and in naming…(re)creating,
(re)newing.

The naming of nature
and the nature of naming.

By the edge of the fire
is a lavender bush
slightly lit
slightly dark.

How much do we usually see things?

The flames and coals
light up the closest sides—
grey-green stems and purple flowers.

I say it: “Lavender.”

Something of me calming already.

The fire helps cut
right to it.

“Lavender.”

Warm, yet calm,
like slowly glowing
embers.

Lavender. 

Sitting around the fire with nephew—
Saturday night fire.

It burns warm on a warm night,
little wind.

The first sticks were taken 
from dead limbs
of a nearby bottlebrush.
The bigger chunks 
are from jarrah.

Flames turn to glowing coals 
in the darkness.

I look all the way into its fiery core,
then let the fiery core
of the word
out of my mouth:
“Fire.”

And the warmth of the Earth descends,
fills, 
inhabits it;
as the word inhabits the mouth
and the space beyond it;
as the physical fire
inhabits the place in front of us;
as the core of it,
meeting the core of the name,
fills the heart
and limbs,
there newly (re)created,
newly alive.