VIGNETTE IV ON PEACE.
Wading birds on leg extensions delicately pick their way through the thrice-salty shallows of the Rottnest lake as if fearful that the hyper-salinity might bite or burn it. They dip their long beaks quickly to harvest a shrimp or tiny insect. Gently they cross the shallows. This is home and they are at home. This is the eternal present of their lives, the way it always is.
We rarely see the massed take-off when they leave for Siberia.
We never see them feeding, breeding on the snowy wastes of the far northern hemisphere – equally their home.
We see only one moment. We see what is.