A few weeks ago I saw the single cygnet
with mother
in the northern part of the lake
shood off
by a coot.
Today the fluffy grey
of the cygnet is beginning to turn dark
along its neck.
It is now diving down
to pull up its own grass,
growing larger
as the water falls.
Nearby
there is a single coot.
And this day,
the cygnet
turns to the coot
and shoos it off.
Category Archives: Lakes
Waiting on the Waders
Last weekend we see a ngalkaning
the nankeen rufous night heron
flying by
in the daytime
over the lake.
Two days ago I spotted a single janjarak
black-winged stilt
huddled by the slowly-growing
shoreline on the south end
beneath the figs.
Yesterday I saw a little cloud
of four small dots
flying low across the water
from the north,
in little gasping flaps.
Four janjarak.
While off to the eastern edge,
in the furthest corner of my eye,
all elegant and white,
koorodoor the great
egret.
Today, in the northern section,
a single rufous heron,
drifted by,
followed by his gentle
honkinsh sound.
All these last months
the water has been so high
that even kwirlam the swamphen
has been forced up
onto the golf course
and parks, eating mown grass.
When they do swim, they are so slow,
their feet not webbed—
if they have chicks, the chicks
are faster.
The lake is now coming slightly off its highest tide,
the breathing in past its deepest depth.
The very top of the pole of the measuring gauge
not quite met. Somewhere between 2.1 and 2.2 metres
now dipping, slightly,
though we’re not quite down to numbers—
the last one being 2 metres flat.
And yet, the very first of the waders—
not yet any wayan white-faced herons—
beginning to come back
with the first
of the lake’s edges.
Kadar the Musk Duck
A couple of days ago
I stood by the gazebo
as kadar the musk duck preened itself
to the east.
A couple of people joined me there—
a girl and her mother.
They were looking at it,
wondering what it was.
Without asking me specifically
I volunteered up:
“It’s a musk duck.”
She repeated it:
“Musk duck.”
And asked:
“Is it only the males
who have that flap?”
A good question,
I thought to myself.
“Yes, and that one is pretty small,
so I guess it’s an adolescent.”
“I’ve never seen one before.”
“The first time I saw one,
I thought it was a platypus.”
We look a little longer
and eventually they go their way.
Today, kadar is back,
coming up out of the murky
depths, just as a woman
and her elderly mother
arrive at the gazebo.
This time I resolve to say nothing
unless asked, feeling I might sometimes
step on others’ freedom
of discovery.
But as I do this, the woman asks me:
“Has it got something in its mouth?”
“No, that’s its bill flap or lobe.
Sometimes he puffs it up for his
call.”
“Wow, I’ve never seen one before.”
“He spends a large amount of time
under water.”
A Kwirlam Tail
Yesterday I walked the path on the southern edge of the lake
under the Moreton Bay figs, past
where yet the Pacific black ducks,
marangana the wood ducks,
maali the swan and cygnets,
kidjibroon the coot,
and maybe a few others,
like ngoonan the grey teal,
have been overdosing on falling figs
that land in the water with a plop.
From there I stayed under the figs,
eventually cutting my own path
through where they sprayed ‘slasher’—
an organic weed burner a few weeks back—
closer to the fenceline by the water’s edge,
towards the jetty.
At one point, not far from the jetty, under the final fig
to the west, I felt something following me,
and turned to find kwirlam the purple swamp hen
on my tail. I wouldn’t say chasing, necessarily, for when
I stopped and turned around he also stopped
and looked at me. Then when
I walked, he too began to walk, drawing slightly closer.
This happened a couple of times.
At first I wasn’t sure if he was looking for things
in my upturned footprints,
or if he thought I might have food,
or if I’d come a bit too close to some of his young.
In any case, I’d never seen him do this to anyone
before.
Arriving at the jetty, he seemed to peel off and go about
his business.
Today, I found myself headed in a similar direction,
without thinking.
And there, standing under the trunk of the fig,
was kwirlam.
I immediately apologised, knowing that this lake is his—
one of the few birds that remains all dry summer—
and returned to the path.
Re-arriving at the jetty I looked back along the fenceline
as he walked along it also. And there, between him and another hen
were a couple of tiny chicks, all black.
Carnage of Crows
On the north-west corner of the lake
there’s a sudden loud
squawking of crows.
More and more come to the scene.
It grows very loud.
It moves like a black cloud
circling a tuart tree
then back around.
I watch and try to see if I can see
a raptor they’re chasing,
but can’t make one out.
More wardong arrive—
maybe a hundred by now,
and it’s getting very loud.
I think of someone’s T-shirt on a flight
back from Bali—
it had a picture of two crows sitting
on a branch with the caption
‘Attempted murder’.
Well, this is full blown carnage.
I keep watching, and eventually
see a larger brown raptor
cruising slowly along
beneath the maelstrom.
Maybe a swamp harrier.
He looks relatively un-fussed.
Eventually it all dies down
and the crows return
to their respective parts of the lake
and beyond.
Kadar Under
Kadar the male musk duck
this time by the eastern viewing area,
more fish than bird,
going under.
Further south are bardoongooba the shoveler
and two ngoonan grey teals.
They’re heading his direction.
And I remember another time
a musk duck came up under a scared
Pacific black duck
at the southern end of the lake.
I think of this
just as this musk duck
goes under again.
The other ducks keep swimming.
And then
they suddenly fly off in a panic,
as the musk comes up between them,
showing his slippery black head,
with the only other things left
a couple of feathers
from the departing shoveler
and teals.
Kadar Chase
Today I saw something I’d never seen before.
At the gazebo
in the northern part of the lake,
water levels still beyond 2.1 metres,
I watched north as a bid came
flapping awkwardly along the water’s surface.
It was too big for a coot.
Too small for a swan.
It seemed to be stuck
half way in the water,
and so kind of flapped from side to side,
trying to free itself from it,
like a statue emerging from stone.
The one chasing it was doing the same.
Eventually the form came into expression,
with flap under bill.
Kadar the musk duck.
Right at that moment it stopped,
about 10 metres from me,
and dived under.
The chaser stayed on the surface,
also a male,
and paddled slowly past me towards the southern bank.
The first one popped up a few moments later
back towards the centre of the lake.
But he really only put his eyes and bill
above the water,
then went back down again.
The other one didn’t notice,
and disappeared again into the
bushes on the shoreline.
The Owls and the Whisperer
I have not seen any owls near the lake this year.
Nor have I seen the owl whisperer
who has for the last two years
told me where the owls had nested,
but always asked that I not tell
too many others.
I visit the old spots, but they’re not there.
I walk the lake at the times
she used to visit.
But she’s not there.
Signs
There are signs with bird names, pictures and descriptions
at the lake.
Somebody wrote on one of them a year or so ago
in black pen “Nyungar names?”
A few days later the question was scrubbed off again;
gone, like it had never been.
Sometimes I run into the signs’ creator and her husband.
Last weekend Katie suggested we write up the names
on stickers and place them on.
This week we’ve been talking about where we
get our stories from—Katie kept mentioning signs like these.
Today, also in black pen,
someone has begun writing names under some of the birds.
Kakak. Yet. Kidjibroon. Kanamit. Wimbin. Maali. Wayan.
That’s as far as they’ve got.
I know the book they’re taken from—
they’re the same as the names I’ve learned.
Three days later the names are still there.
I wonder what the response will be
this time.
The Lake’s Contraction
Lake today, well into Birak, levels at 1.13 metres, or thereabouts. There are birds scattered across the water—mostly coots in the centre—with ducks of all kinds on the edges, as well as a few swans, stilts, and more. There is relative calm as I watch from under the figs on the south end in the shade. And then, suddenly, there is a simultaneous flutter and flurrying of wings as birds from the north and from all edges of the lake fly towards its centre. They seem to fly together in species clouds—there is a group of stilts, and a group of teals, there are Pacific black ducks together (with nine newborn chicks in a line trailing after), and amongst the groups are scattered also coots, shelducks, shovelers, wood ducks, pink ears low and grey, probably some hardheads but I don’t see them, some grey-feathered cygnets. Even the white corellas above me start fussing about, though only slightly moreso than usual. I’m looking around for the raptor—likely the swamp harrier—and there he is, coming in low across the grass and rushes like a jumbo coming into land, then flying higher, whirling around. More birds fly into the centre, other birds come in from the north. Crows fly across the lake, but don’t head towards him. There are no seagulls to chase him today. Up above, much higher, a cormorant is exiting the scene, while about the same level as the harrier a white-faced heron is honking and gripping at the air the way he does in his flying style. More birds come towards the southern part of the lake—it is getting pretty full in there. Only the ibis seem to have stayed put on their melaleuca perches to the west. The harrier cruises around for a while longer, mostly over the rushes to the east, before eventually returning to the north, as the birds begin to slowly move back towards the edges from the deepest part of the lake—the last part to dry in late summer. The whole scene like the workings of a kind of organism—the way a body can contract towards the centre in the face of fear.
John Stubley 