Clear skies, no wind,
high teens / low 20s,
waning gibbous hanging 
above trees and smoke
on the western horizon.

The swamphens walk
the edges of their grass and lake.
The Pacific black ducks
rest on a log within 
the confines of the water.
The shelducks hang on the 
drier peripheries.
The dotterels totter back
and forth across the watery
threshold.
A white-faced heron walks
ghostly and lonely 
on a dry flat between 
water and grass.
Four janjarak
black-winged stilts
wander the water area
to the south.

Above, kanamit the welcome swallow
flies and flits and cuts the air.
Djiddy djiddy the wagtail
drops down in places, lifts
off a log, lands on mud.
Above, two red-tailed black cockatoos
call and cross over.
Wardong the crow of course.

There are jakalak wattlebirds in the 
paperbarks flowering with bees.
Smaller birds in another paperbark
drop down in and out of the reeds.
Grass birds too? Warblers?
I think I spot a crake 
shoot out of then back into
the taller rushes—just a shadow really—
a buff-banded rail maybe.

Lorikeets higher above.
No raptors seen today.

All these layers.
All of it filled by ideas that live.
Life inspired by living beings.
And I—I’m left with questions:
How to bring more living things—
more living beings—to life?
How to invite, in freedom, that life
of the world that lives in each of us 
further into light?

Galbamaanup Lake Claremont
and there are clear skies and calm wind.
The water is still low. Hazily I make out
maali the swan. Many kwirlam swamp hens.
A couple of djiddy djiddy wagtails
down by the water’s edge.
Some smaller birds to the south.
I walk in this direction—the small birds
appear to be five nidoolyorong 
black-fronted dotterels—
the first I’ve seen this season.

Then a second swan.
The dotterels are pacing around 
in the shallows. In front of one 
there flies up a little cloud of insects
which settle again on the water
beyond. 

The wholeness of the place—
of the Earth—
also comes settling in.

Need I keep observing?

But then, nyimarak
the shelduck to the west—
and where there is one…
a second.

Kanamit the welcome swallow
flits over the water.

And then on a log directly in front,
a grey shape, 
on one leg,
wayan the white-faced heron.

This place made more whole.
Me made more human.

A foundation to build on
for what comes next.

At the lake today there are 
four janjarak black-winged stilts,
two nyimarak shelducks,
many kwirlam swamp hens,
and one yet Pacific black duck.
No swans. No white-faced herons.
No white-necked herons.

I walk around the southern wetter end
towards the gazebo,
where the lake is still a lake of grass.
I sit and watch the wind
blow through the green and drying stems—
a strong morning wind from the east.

I stay and sit with it.
The whole comes creeping in.
The spirit of the Earth as a whole,
of humanity.
And it’s clear to me, in that moment,
that this has always been present 
in this place—always worked with,
always seen—
before it had another name.

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.