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.

No matter how many times I visit the lake, there is always the opportunity for seeing something new—some kind of new doorway onto the lake, and maybe also as if I am able to reflect something newly perceived back onto it. Today I’m forced out of the house at an unusual midday hour. The water level has dropped to 1.16m. In the middle of the lake I again see a swan surrounded by coots, and notice this time that the coots are waiting for the leftovers from the grass that the swan pulls up. They circle around the larger bird, waiting patiently, not having to dive. Every now and then the swan lifts is neck out of the water and seems to do some kind of concentrated kicking under the surface, which seems to move sediment into the water around it. 

There are also other birds again today, of course. Teals, shovelers, shelducks, black ducks, hardheads, some cormorants, the small raptor, a rail, a moorhen, stilts and more. Near the jetty I watch as a midday black duck flaps and flies briefly then dives for a moment under water, submerged, before it surfaces with water streaming off its back. 

And for the first time at this lake I have seen today a bird that I usually only ever see on the coastal shoreline—the white-feathered, orange-beeked, triangular-winged (perfect for bombing beak-first into the water) Caspian tern. He flies one way, then the other, and is gone.

Back at the lake for the first time in more than a week, and there are birds spread out everywhere. The first thing I notice is the high, melodious sound of the reed warbler; though I can’t see him, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him warble so much. In the centre of the lake a swan is pulling up grass surrounded by coots; the water where they are seems a slightly darker colour, and circular—it seems like it is a real centre today, with a kind of centre of lake gravity, with much movement or birds and water. Elsewhere, there are other coots spread. Shelducks. Pink ears. A hardhead diving down. And then, from across the other side of the lake, very low and rapidly approaching, comes something with a small wingspan, though not flapping but rather gliding and tilting as it goes; it shoots past a little grebe, which ducks under water, by the edge of the reeds in front of us—reeds all top heavy with seed—then tears off to one side and disappears. As it passes by I start to think it is a raptor of some kind, maybe a kestrel or hobby. No other bird seems to feel threatened, or maybe even notices. It was such a brief, sharp flash.

Lots of birds at the lake today, including a group in the centre of the southern end. All the usuals are here—swans, black ducks, numerous teals, coots, swamphens, wood ducks, pink ears, three hardheads, some shelducks, shovelers, and a bunch of others out of view right now. Fin and I walk the path around the edge, observing as much as we can. There are a couple of quendas near the jetty. I guess the water level to be 1.24 metres, he guesses 1.22—the gauge says 1.23 metres. The level makes it possible for many different birds in many different places to reach food across the lake. The melaleucas keep flowering, as do the yellow and red eucalypts further to the north and west. There’s a Pacific black duck with six chicks. I tell him I saw a kakka bakka the other day—he says that’s his favourite bird name—we make it to the gazebo, but I can’t see the spoonbill today. We see some more coot chicks. And then uplifts a cloud of janjarak black winged stilts with a seagull behind. At first it looks like the seagull is chasing them. But then appears on the scene the long orange wingspan of the swamp harrier again. At this point the seagull doubles back and starts to give chase. The harrier begins to move south as more stilts take to the skies, coming from every part of the lake, it seems—I had no idea there were so many. The harrier moves further south, and the seagull backs off. The harrier comes to land amongst the grass on the eastern side of the lake. It’s hard to spot him now, but there may be a wagtail harassing him in the reeds. Nothing happens for a while so we move off. Then a little later the harrier takes off again and glides on the wind, one way and then another, his big wings catching the air like a sail, and he seems to almost struggle with the change of wind direction as he circles. He’s moving further south now, and then from nowhere another bird is giving chase—it looks like a small raptor—an Australian kestrel maybe, perhaps a hobby. It dives at the harrier a few times, then peels off into a nearby tree. The harrier is hovering while looking down amongst the reeds; it hovers remarkably well for its size, sitting above one particular spot, before he comes into land, and we move on.

Saturday morning at the lake again. My wife Katie and I are at the gazebo. And over on the (re)new(ed) eastern shoreline—a spit formerly watery, now dry—next to an all-black swan, sits an all-white bird, about two-thirds the size of his neighbour. There are also some ibis nearby in their melaleuca perch; but almost immediately I ‘know’ the all-white bird is kakka bakka—the western spoonbill. He is preening and pruning his white feathers with his long white bill which was, at first, unseen, but which comes gradually into greater view, with the spooned-out tip on its end.

The ibis with their long, curved, almost-proboscis-like bills good for spearing down deep into cracks and softer earth; the spoonbill with a long straight bill with rounded tip good for wide swinging arcs over slightly submerged ground, like a prospector surveying for gold.

For some reason my attention is drawn again to the fenceline in the lake today. Its old posts run in a line north to south in the southern part of the lake, sticking now—levels at 1.26 metres—out of the water. Knowing some of all that this lake is, or all of some of what it is, it definitely reveals a kind of thinking of that time which decided it was a good idea to put a fenceline in…and right through its centre, like a kind of dividing of life. Someone or someones thought it was a good idea at the time, and it still lives there, in grey-post, faded-timber retrospect.

And now, in writing this, I’m also reminded of the fence they put up between the viewing area and the shoreline on the south eastern side. I remember that fence appeared one day with a sign that said “Temporary Fence.” Eventually the sign disappeared.

The birds at the lake have adopted the regular pattern of recent days and weeks. In the centre it is mostly coots, a few hardheads, and maybe a couple of shelducks. Towards the north, on dead tree stumps, are a couple of kakak cormorants. Manatj also find dead log spots to walk their white feathers down to the water. The rest of the birds, though—mostly ducks—stick to the more shallow edges, occasionally flying forward in a crowd towards the lake’s centre if anyone pauses too long on the walkway, or doubles back; in there are teals, shovelers, pink ears, black ducks, but also stilts. I walk the edge today around to the jetty, and resting there on the bank are some black ducks as well as wood ducks; one black duck has a couple of young with it still. A black winged stilt stands on the nesting spot left by a coot at the end of the jetty. He flies off when I arrive, doubles back around, makes a lot of complaining noise while bobbing his head up and down, lands on the shore to the west, then retakes his position once I leave. Water levels are 1.27 metres and falling.

I walk towards the gazebo—there are maleleucas flowering white and full along the branches. A swan sticks its head up above the seeds of the grasses. An ibis is busy in the grass further north. A night heron lands on the bush with other ibis. At the gazebo I notice an abandoned swan’s nest with another stilt perched upon it. A coot has some new chicks. Two swans dance slowly together while another eats grass nearby, not far from four small cygnets eating too. 

More stilts walk high in the north west shallows. There are many high pitched songs amongst the tuarts to the north of the lake. And near the north east corner a cloud of white-tailed black cockatoos fly over.

Amongst it all, there are boys playing cricket, and a girls school on some kind of scavenger hunt with nature-based observation stations scattered around the lake; they seem to notice some lorikeets, but not the cockatoos. The eucalypts in the park are shedding their kindling bark for the fire of summer. Further into the parkland as I approach the car, a woman sits on a bench—she has about seven dogs running around nearby, one of whom wishes to say hello. And then I pass by a group of corellas in the grass eating the seeds of a yellow flower like cat’s claw—a kind of smaller dandelion; they go past the full flowers themselves, leaving them, but instead specifically seeking out the the older ones that have gone to seed.