Moogerah spillway

The year opens  

the way the lake does  

when the wind hasn’t yet

made up its mind.

A pelican lifts off,  

slow as someone checking  

whether the day is worth  

committing to.

There’s the faint drift  

of caramelised onions

from the caravan park—  

not sweet, just a reminder  

that people are already gathering  

for something small and ordinary.

I take the track  

down past the brittle grass,  

not to declare a beginning,  

only to stand where the water  

waits without fuss.

If this counts as a start,  

it’s the kind that asks nothing—  

just a step,  

and the willingness  

to stay with it.