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.