After not being there yesterday,
the janjarak black-winged stilts
have come back to the lake.

There are seven standing on a dead log
towards the lake’s drying centre—
one with wings a lighter grey—
an adolescent still,
most likely.

Death does not roll on 
in a linear way.
Life returns amidst it.

As essential life is freed up
by it.

The Earth itself will 
eventually
go this way.

The lake has dropped below the measurement gauge—
its base sits discoloured and dry.

The remaining water is shallow
and the colour of coffee or, more precisely, cappuccino.

Five days ago, marangana the wood duck was on the edges,
now he’s gone; 
janjarak the black winged stilt was also here,
now gone.

Up till yesterday there were two adolescent swans—
the last of the young this season.
I was beginning to wonder if their wings would be strong enough
to carry them out before the water dried up.
Today they too are gone.

By the water, that leaves kwirlam the swamphen
who will not go.
Plus about a dozen black ducks, some in the water,
some on logs, some wading the mud on the edges.
There might be a grey teal or two among them.

Kanamit the welcome swallow flitters above from time to time.
Manatj the corella lands on dead branches
and climbs down to the water.

Then there are the other usual suspects.

But mostly we’re headed to dryness,
departure and death.

Though what’s on the other side of that—
beyond just seasons?

The spirit of this place—any place—
still exists. 
And seeks to serve—
the whole, the Earth…
and what comes next.

Sunday morning Leighton Beach
and I’ve managed to find a spot to myself
albeit only for a while.
Soon swimmers come close
or cut across,
either further out
or right where I stand.

I go under
and open my eyes.
It’s different than the night before
when, facing west
at sunset,
through the water I
saw light.

Now it’s more limestone cloudy.

I stay a while longer
as the swimmers continue on.
And then, from the south, also in a line,
approaches midi the pied cormorant.
He seems to have no intention
of passing around or over or under me.
He just keeps on paddling.
We lock eyes.
The water carries him slightly inland of me,
but close enough to touch
as he moves by,
all black and white,
blue eye area,
yellow and pink face,
top beak-end hooked over the bottom.

He keeps his eye on me for a couple more metres
then puts his head under to look for fish.

Gradually he is gone.

Many things exist and approach
in the watery substance
of the world.
What do we see there?
What of what we see
should we seek to become?

***

People talk of light in the dark.
Maybe we should begin to speak
of light 
in the water—
of a watery kind of Sun.

We’ve only ever been to one other
Wardandi Country cave together—Calgardup.
While there we were given
entry to Giants Cave as well.

These two are run by state government.
The rest are privately run.
(Though, we’re told, there are about
a hundred others too.)

As we’re getting the briefing
I have a vague memory
of being told
that this cave is more full on
than the rest.

Tight climbs up vertical ladders.
87 metres below ground.
95 percent humidity.
Points of no turning back.

As we head down
I begin to feel the weight
of all that earth above me.

But then I try bring in some 
of the light of the whole Earth—
of the whole human being—
into this darkness.

From this point on,
the weight of the earth
doesn’t bother me.
Even down here I feel buoyant.

At one point we turn off our headlights.
Eyes open or closed, the darkness
is still the same.

We pass through the tight squeezes
between limestone and calcite quartz
on vertical ladders. 
We pass under overhangs,
crawling.
We climb over sections 
where the path isn’t clear—
where there are only chains
and drops back
down ladder shafts.
We slide down wet sections 
on our backsides
tightly gripping ropes.

And finally we scramble,
after having to kill a couple of marchflies,
back towards the windows and doorway 
of light at the far end,
crawling over
the final steps,
and slinking through the tiny 
backdoorway, more gnome-like
than we left, maybe,
but also more human;
more connected to the darkness;
more connected to the earth;
more connected to the light.

We’re kayaking Molloy Island
on the Joojilyup Blackwood River
upstream from Tallinup Augusta.

There’s a howling northerly wind 
blown in from a nearby cyclone.
We ride it straight down from the boat launch,
past the caravan park, past the private ferry,
round the southern side of the island
where we stop at sandy beach and swim.

This island is like the the water rose up
and took form. 
Even in summer it feels wet.
We paddle in and out of little waterways
and emerge on the island’s eastern side 
still somewhat protected from the wind.
We’ve never been here before—this island
between Wardandi and Bibbulman country.
Much is new. 

But then we turn a corner 
heading north,
and there in the water 
is kadar the musk duck.
Female.
All black and sleek
and diving.
We paddle 
and the next time she comes up
we’re almost side by side.

Sometimes all you need is something familiar
in a whole landscape of unknowns
to anchor yourself.

Hamelin Bay bottom of Wardandi country
and here you’ll find some of the best
limestone rocks for skimming across
the water’s surface.

Part way up the beach 
there’s a little reef section
of more limestone.

I stand near the reef and send a few
rocks out into the ocean.
And as I look down to find more,
I realise that the reef formation,
while much larger,
is also the form of a perfect 
skimming rock—sized for giants.

The whole in the parts,
the parts in the whole.
As all living things are,
and all that they create.

As we are, though
we need lose nothing
of ourselves 
on the journey back.

Morning wakeups of kookaburras
flying into closed windows,
over and over again—maybe five times.

Later in the morning
chunyart the 28 is perched
on the edge of the bird bath
before jumping
without hesitation right into it.
He flaps and bathes himself
like an old pro—
like a duck—
shooing off another 28
when he approaches.
And when he’s had enough,
he flaps up onto a nearby tree branch
to dry out.

I suspect a nearby bandiny New Holland 
honeyeater has also had a drink.
He perches on nearby red-flowering grevillea
and feeds another bandiny when it approaches.

The other chunyart stands on the edge
of the bath, drops his head to drink
but doesn’t jump in.

There is a family of red-winged fairy wrens—
only the male of which is coloured 
with red wings and blue head—
hopping on the grass and bushes nearby.

A scarlet robin sits, all red-breasted, 
in the branch of a bottlebrush.

And there are other small birds of dark-grey wings, 
black eyebrows and whiter breast;
plus some even smaller birds like 
tiny silvereyes.

They come on like a flurry
all together
in the morning—
all at the same time,
while now it is quiet.

Perhaps it’s also the usual time 
that the cleaner might come
and gather up any rubbish,
potentially dropping food.
Perhaps not.

In any case,
all it takes 
is a little sitting outside,
a preparedness
to look up from the
screens of life,
and see what arrives—
to see what flies in,
what lands,
and becomes,
inside.

Back where the Marbeelup Chapman Brook
meets the Joojilyup Blackwood River.
There are four big marris and a big
peppermint. The sun is out
and I can faintly see small fish in the
shallows, maybe perch, maybe bream.

Chunyart the 28 escorted me in. 
Karak the red-tailed cockatoo lines
the marri trees above,
screeching out to one another.
Some white tails flew over
on the driving here.

I walk further up-brook along 
the Marbeelup, past the boat launch,
past the barbecues and campground,
along the water’s edge. 
There are signs about the native veg-
etation. There is sword sedge, I think.

And as I come around one corner
there is a long black line on the trail—
around one metre long, with yellow underbelly,
body a bit thicker than a thumb.
I pause—a few meters off—and watch 
as he slithers into the bushes by
the side of the path.

All of this reveals itself in the 
light of blue-morning day, 
the first clear sky in a week or more.
But it reveals its essence
to the observing mind
and finds its fullness
in relation to the widths
and depths
of the human being and the earth
found there.

On the banks of the Joojilyup Blackwood again
near its mouth in Tallinup Augusta.

We’re on another work call 
and I’m looking out the window
at all the water
rushing in between the shore
and a sand bar 
near the river’s centre.

There are people on stand-up paddle boards,
dogs, kids—many of them swimming across the current 
to stand on the bar mid-river.

Limestone lines the other bank, far over.
The ospreys are still in the Norfolk pines.

Part way through the call things shift
from the pushing of some kind of program
to an opening of doors
to all those who feel called
to be there.

Something switches,
inverts. The guiding spirit
of the work comes rushing 
in, through, between…
like a tide that pauses, 
breathes, 
and turns.

It’s so-called Australia day again
and maybe we’re doing a retake
on some of the cliches of the day.

In the morning we head to the beach—
Hamelin Bay—
for a swim, 
but with stingrays.

Then it’s into the karri forest
for a spot of four-wheel driving,
though we take a two-wheel drive
and spend all our time looking
up at the mighty trees
and observing the consequences
of fire, and of no-fire.

Back home after, for a barbecue,
of regenerative eggs, 
sourdough, vegetarian patties,
organic tomatoes, onions, 
capsicum, zucchine and even 
a spot of bok choi.

Later, we take the water craft
down to the river,
though here there’s no jet
skis, just our inflatible kayaks,
spending our time 
finding red-winged fairy wrens
and fantails
amongst the bushes 
by the side of the Marbeelup
Chapman Brook,
then following it down
to where it flows into the
Djudjulyup Blackwood River.

There are some big marri trees
on the upriver side,
and a big peppermint.
This is a large meeting of waters
on this large country.

It is big country, deep country,
flowing through—
as gift—
the country 
of human beings
this day, 
transfigured,
transformed,
and now—
as gift—
back out again.