Rising on wings polished by the morning sun,
The harrier, with long bronzed feathers, glides lazily,
Circles, soars, floats; its downcast eyes riveted,
Searching for stray movements among swaying reeds
In the watery fingers of wetland below;
Betrayed by the wind, a bandicoot scurries;
And the harrier drops!

Six tiny ducklings are mothered and safe;
Fluffy brown balls, bobbing quietly along;
But the water is dropping, the rain's not come;
The harrier's watching and hovers above;
There's a dog on the path only metres away.
Will they learn to survive and grow to be strong?
Are they destined to die?

Three long-legged herons, tall flying brooms;
Slowly, the trio flop down with a splash,
Stand, and reflect in this watery grave;
Ankle-deep shallows are not deep enough;
Crumbling brown banks lie broken and cracked;
Heavenly once, but the future's not here
If the water dries up.

The rain doesn't fall, the creek's nearly dry;
Bones on the bank lie bleached and disjointed;
The herons have gone and frogs stopped croaking;
The ducklings have flown - the two that survived;
The wetland's not wet, just earthy and bare;
The sun and the summer drag oppressively on;
But the harrier's still there!