Kambarang—birth season—and on the lake’s eastern edge we see the recently arrived coot chicks again, before something startles wayan the whitefaced heron, kooridor the egret and ngalkaning the night heron from the rushes to the north. I wonder where kadar the musk duck has got to, but soon she appears in front of the same rushes. A couple of pink eared ducks arrive in the middle of the lake from the north. Some black winged stilts stand further to the south. The owl whisperer details the exact location of a third tawny frogmouth, and I point out to her the reed warbler on a rush in the morning sunshine. She counters with an account of a bluebill to the north. I mention kadar. She trumps with a picture of a wagtail nest, like a woven felt cup, now gone—disappeared overnight!—but tells of another one next to the golfcourse to the south; my nephew and I find it a few minutes later, following a wagtail with stick in its mouth. There are Pacific black ducks and a couple of shelducks to the south. The owl whisperer also mentioned that the coot by the jetty who’s been sitting on her nest for many weeks has finally hatched some chicks, though more eggs remain. We watch for confirmation. Lake at 1.47 metres. And then yes, we see that some chicks have hatched all black with red-ish yellow heads, feathers spiky and not yet settled—they are small and come back under their mother’s weight and wings. Someone asks us—seeing only black feathers and a nest—if it is a swan. “Eurasian coot,” we reply, and soon walk on. More coot nests. We talk about Goethe’s observations on organs of perception. At the gazebo the blue bill is obvious in the morning light, his bill the colour of the sky; we watch as he paddles under the gazebo into the shade. A human mother, son and (likely) grandmother walk past us. They don’t notice the duck—they’re looking for swans; they lament not many being present. Somebody else arrives. We point out a turtle. The mother sees, and eventually the grandmother does too. Something changes. They try to show it to the son in the stroller. We point out the bluebill which returns to the light when we look for it amongst the shadows. There are swans and coots out there. My nephew and I talk about what happens when people finally see things—be they physical or immaterial, such as thoughts. Even for thoughts people say, “Ah! I see.” My nephew and I talk about Goethe’s observation that thinking can become a kind of perceiving, and perceiving a kind of thinking. We walk the curving western edge of the lake and see a Pacific duck with about eight chicks; a large group of coots further north; some more Pacific ducks and teals in the paperbark shadows. We cross to the dog park and find the owls still on their nests. And right before we reach the car, we go looking for the third owl that the whisperer promised. “Third tree on the right after the XXXX, not too high.” My nephew sees it first: another frogmouth waiting. All three owls are in eucalypts. Just another Wednesday at the lake.  

I have not seen or heard kadar the musk duck since I saw the female with chicks and heard the male’s poing five days ago. I wonder where they are. And as I walk today, at some far distant corner, I hear the sound of the male, clear and poing-niant, sounding its way—rippling and turning its way—across to me on the other side of the lake. Still here.

Walking the edge of the lake today, there’s a pink eared duck—wimbin—sleeping on the water’s edge, with yet the Pacific black duck nearby. They stir a little when we pause to look. The wimbin shows us his best side-on feature: he’s all black-and-white stripes, square-tipped bill, dark crown and black eye. And up near the dark crown, the tiniest hint of a little pink dot. And for this they renamed him the pink eared duck. “What about the zebra stripes?” I say. “Or the shovel shaped bill?” my nephew replies.

Plenty of times I have seen a coot jump up a little in order to dive deeper below the water’s surface, then come up again with plant in mouth, or not, with a plop. But never have I seen one jumping up from the surface of grassy, watery, reeds to reach the top of the highest reed by his side. One, two, three, four jumps. And for some reason the top of that very reed is the one he wants. We stand there watching. And he gets it, eventually.

My nephew and I go to Perry Lakes for something different and find a wetland 3.64m high following rain and water diversion from Noogenboro Lake Herdsman nearby (we find where the drain seems to come out). Also here are some of the birds not seen recently at Galbaamanup Lake Claremont, such as the white-bill-tipped-and-eyed hardhead, the blue-billed bluebill boodoo, the long-white-billed kakka-bakka spoonbill, the orange-legged shovel-billed bardoobgooba the Australian shoveler, marangana the woodduck with twelve chicks, the breeding Australasian grebe. All of these birds are currently absent from Galbamaanup, but all of them are here, just nearby…with, of course, the usual coots and swamphens and swans, ibis and corellas and magpies and kookaburras…and so on.

We then drive across lower lands to Noogenboro Lake Herdsman itself. It is a different mindset that drives sticking to lower points in the land, rather than one that sticks to the quickest route. We park and walk further down to the lake—an Ibis, some Pacific black ducks, a mudlark, and someone spotting birds. The city lies in the background.

I run into my owl-whispering friend again at the lake, and she tells me for the third time—and this time with phone photo—where to find a tawny frogmouth owl on the lake’s eastern edges. I thought I’d looked at all the trees she’d suggested, up and down, round and round, every single forking branch. And now, when I get to the spot she’s shown me, I walk along a well-worn path, and not more than a couple of arm lengths from the ground, directly above, in plain and simple sight, there is the owl, looking back.

Arriving at the lake today, in westerly wind and after overnight rain, I spot a flash amongst the reeds at its eastern edge, with a chick or two left behind a retreating female, or maybe male. I assume it is a duck. On first look it seems to be a musk, but I haven’t seen one here in months, and here is something with young. Soon I have lost sight of any movement. But then, out beyond the edges of the rushes, there is the low lying, all-black form, sitting lower in the water than a yet…a female musk duck with two chicks. I remember seeing some here months and months ago, but nothing since. But for this one to have two chicks now it must have been here all this time, likely in a nest undercover, away from prying eyes. 

Later on the walk I’m also surprised to hear the recurring ‘poing’ of the male calling—the sound travelling into the westerly wind with ease. Here this whole time.