Rain in the dark town, the land lit with grey light before the sun came. A tentative time. Suddenly golden, the air full of bird cries, golden light shining up towards the clouds, the bellies of ducks lit up pink as they fly. A sky of birds, each flock with its own pattern. Our faces lifted to the wide startling nature of this world. Low land, hills, sky, birds, clouds, golden light. Radiance. A flat green expanse: a stand of paperbarks and swamp-oaks rising in the distance. Through binoculars it comes alive. There are swans nesting. Their black necks are solitary on the nest, brave out in the open. Falcons race past. White-faced ibis, black-faced ibis. I forget their names but remember the other-worldness of birds. The special family: mother and father brolga with a chick. The chick is a little white shape bobbing in the long grass beside the parents. Roy hasn’t seen the brolgas breed here for thirty years. He’s proud and delighted. The male brolga suddenly rises into the air. With a huge rhythm he flaps eastward. We wonder why. There’s another brolga over there. The father sees him off, then returns to his family. He shouts his triumph in a great voice that echoes around us. It sounds like the noise of a hundred birds. He flaps his wings and throws his chest out and trumpets his power. There’s a rainbow-end. Roy calls it a weather-dog. It appears and disappears, appears and disappears. It collapses to the ground, flooding the grass. It becomes so intense I nearly cry. Sometimes I forget how beautiful and holy this world is. I’m glad this land has someone wise looking after it who loves and values its bird-life. Many creatures depend on wetlands. We must protect them. The sun’s high and we drive back to the house. We’re treated to stories and cuppas and home-made cake. I’ll always remember that shining, radiant morning of birds. Thankyou Roy and Jean.