Much like cyberspace, early morning in Big Swamp is noisy. It is filled with tweets and squawks.
During my recent trip I found the air was filled with the high pitched squeaks of honeyeaters, the melodic songs of the Willy Wagtails, and the pained cry of the swamp hens as I approached. The musk duck was being chased by another, the paddle speed of webbed feet on water, fast and furious.
I slowed my pace as I approached the boardwalk. It is the intention, that slowing down of body and mind, that brings me here each time.
I know the Welcome Swallows love sitting on the rails, facing the sun. Sometimes they get used to my presence and accommodate my curiosity. I’ve learned to extend the lens only when they look away, as movement is always a signal for flight.
To my surprise I found some Swallows on the ground near my feet. 
Fear set aside, they were busy with nest building, focused on task.
A slight movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention, a fairy blue wren darting and hopping among the foliage. No matter how many times I see them, the flash of blue always makes my heart skip a beat. 
The male wren stood still for a moment. So perfect. It looked like an enamelled ornament, with blues upon blues found in sky and sea.
In contrast, the female’s beauty, is subtle. Perhaps this is nature’s intention.
While the male distracts she tends to her family, almost invisible, among debris.
Distraction is a powerful tool. These tiny little creatures know this instinctively. They use it for survival.
People in power know this too.
As I read today’s news headlines, I wonder …
Do we?
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
The HMAS Sydney II Memorial is a place of quiet reflection. 
The HMAS Sydney II was lost off the coast of Western Australia in November 1941, taking all 645 lives with it. 
Each silver seagull, a memory. In that space of the dead, they fly free, forever together, in sky and sea.
She turns her back on the Eternal Flame, her frame larger than life, just slightly larger. The wind catches her dress. She holds on to her hat. That’s all she has for now. Her scan of sea, unwavering.
The powerful emotion written across her face, of concern and dare I say hope, is of a woman who has loved and lost.
I got to Bunbury just moments before the sun slipped into the Indian Ocean. A moment of pause for me and others too it would seem.
This morning I was up early and headed to Big Swamp where the bottlebrush is blooming.
Among the reedy grass I caught a glimpse of a swamp hen chick, not yet purple, blue and red.
The Welcome Swallow chick was a delightful ball of fluffy feathers. It is so new, it didn’t know fear of me.
There were chicks every where making a silent call for food.
A young New Holland honeyeater obliged with a moment of stillness.
Then came the Splendid Blue Fairy Wren, in his gorgeous feathers of blue.
After a frantic game of chase, he rested with his mate.
On the other side of the boardwalk, the big cormorant ignored my presence. I’ve not seen this type of cormorant here before. It sat on the branch for the whole of two hours I was there. Probably still there!
Gum blossoms.
I found a sculpture in Kulin, left behind after the last ‘Blazing Swan’ festival. The festival runs to a similar theme to The Burning Man. This was the swan’s egg. How did I not know about this festival! When I returned home, I looked at the website. It looks awesome!
In the Wheatbelt I also watched some birds, like me, work hard to create their nest.
The wildflower season was ending in Mingenew in the Midwest, and although past their prime, some were still sunny side up.
While in other places, there was harmonious diversity in all colours.
I came across details in tiny insects that the naked eye could not see.
I walked along the walking trail high above West Beach in Esperance where teenage surfers start their day and where I like to start mine. They stick together in a pod and have each other’s back. Earlier this year a Great White hung around for hours just 100 metres from shore. Although I watch them with a mother’s eye, I can’t help but admire their youthful dare.
I’ve come across extraordinary, in the ordinary. Reminders for me that any job is ordinary, but how we perceive what we do, takes it to another level.
I examined the wonderful weirdness of Nature closely and found I was wrong, there’s nothing weird about delicate intricacy.
The striking vividness of colour on shrubs stopped me in my tracks.
And also when I caught sight of an errant Running Postman on the ground.
Color in nature can be striking when plain.
Or subtle in varying hues.
There are also some attention seekers saying, ‘look at me’!
And just when I thought I was alone while bush walking, I realised, I had company.
This morning I walked around in Foxes Lair. There were so many flowers to see and enjoy. It was overwhelming. 
The long view was beautiful. But what was at my feet?
I found this straggly plant, probably a weed. Just green foliage but wait, there was a hint of colour. It is imperceptible even now when I look for it.
I waited for the sunrise and returned to the plant.
I’m not sure if it is a weed or not but it lifted my flagging spirits.
The tea tree flowers were growing everywhere, sprayed here and there, over leaf debris.
Then there was this gorgeous plant. Exquisite.
This enamel orchid took my breath away. I’ve never seen one this tiny.
I looked deep into tiny flowers. Each perfect in creation.
This trigger plant was a stronger pink compared to those that were in the palest pink hues.
A gorgeous succulent.
There were all shades of purple. This one so vivid against grey debris.
I wasn’t disappointed. This mother had a very young joey. They blended into the landscape so beautifully. 
I followed the mother’s gaze and found to the right of me was a huge kangaroo, male I think. I was captivated by his eyes!
Then he loped across the road in front of my car, as if in slow motion and I realised he was old. 
The trio disappeared in seconds into the bush.
I got out of my car to a chorus of kookaburra laughter. They continued chortling as I walked beneath them.
It was not light enough to photograph the flowers, so I spent my time looking upwards. (Mental note, do more of this).
This young parrot just stared right back at me! Port Lincoln parrot, I think.
The redcap parrot chewed away happily, littering gum nuts.
As I was leaving, the robin redbreast made a bold statement.
In my teens and on my own I had assumed everyone I meet “has a kernel of goodness”. I found out not so. I resented my mother’s views on life and people. I thought she had lied to us.
I stopped a moment and took a picture.
And then another
And one more … I felt like a new mother, inspecting every nub, like counting toes on newborn feet.
The sun was fading fast. The wind strong. My eyesight weak. But like him, I set up, waiting for success.
He leaned right back, now almost lying down. He had done this before. The gouges in the sand, his history.
The wind lifted him. Airborne!
I stopped by Minninup Pool, just outside Collie. 
How many shades of yellow can one find? 
I had heard the underside of the blue enamel orchid is beautiful. It is.
In nature, when differences come together, it creates nothing but spectacular beauty. 
A wild orchid.
A bottlebrush waiting to bloom.
I found hundreds of these white and pink lily like flowers in Margaret River.
The flowers were growing on stalks a few feet high.
And these poms of white found a place in wooded areas too.
Her garden is a delight. I stop to take a picture here and there.
The ornamental almond tree was frosted white.
The ornamental peach tree bloomed elsewhere.
There were bulbs bejewelled with bees.
I found this in one corner, my camera sees what she hasn’t in a long time. “How on earth did that bloom there?”, she asks me, and we both laugh at her surprise. 
I loved the white flowers in another corner and asked her what they were. She tells me, they are English May, a cutting from her grandmother’s garden. It’s something she cherishes. Not hard to see why.
She is seated on a plastic chair, crutches to the side, water hose in hand dousing dirt in front of her with about 15 silver eye keeping her company. They dig into the damp soil for tasty morsels. She giggles like a little girl at their antics.
Yellow everlasting flowers growing roadside in the Wheatbelt.
or growing side by side with blue leschenaultia in dry, gravel soil.
The beautiful velvety native purple flowers on grey foliage that look extremely ordinary from a distance. But close up? You be the judge.
These interesting flowers are tiny and waxy. I’ve seen creamy lemon ones in the Goldfields. They glisten in the sun like dew. Up close, they are delicate and finely veined, like aged hands. I’ve seen hundreds and thousands of these, but this time, I saw one in bloom. Exquisite.
Then there are the tiny everlastings that glow like embers, along the ground.
The beautiful spears of grevillea that grow wild everywhere.
Or these mops of orange.
and blue.
The delicate intricacy of the cone flower.
And tiny, tiny, butter yellow blooms.
I still find white flowers joyful.
At first the mother duck swam serenely past him with ducklings in tow.
He watched them glide by and drew attention, the sound a mere burble that made ripples around him, saying “I’m here”.
She ignored him. Then his body language changed as he exposed more and more of his chin lobe and moved faster, with a speed that took me by surprise.
He followed the female duck drawing closer, becoming increasingly relentless in his pursuit.
I thought the ducklings looked afraid as they moved towards their mother. She stopped and studied the moment.
Then she intervened, putting herself between the male and her ducklings. She engaged in a dance with him this way as they glided past me, in a back and forth.
He chased her repeatedly, the ripples around him becoming wider.
She ignored him. He arched his body into a bow, chin lobe prominent and brush tail stiffened in a final still moment.
Then he exploded. The water erupted around him. In one desperate moment, he put on his best show. She did what ducks do best. With ducklings in tow, she paddled on, unimpressed.
A Shared Space 
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