There are no platypus under the bridge again today.
It’s the fourth week in a row and we all ask each other
Instead of hello, “Seen any platypus?” — hopeful
And each time, it’s “Not today… not for a while…”
None of us know whether it’s seasonal, but we all fear
It’s the climate, it’s the end-times, that they’ll never
return
Rahana walks her dogs every morning, rapid, brusque.
She’s looking for ants, she says, but they’re all gone.
There used to be thousands of them, everywhere.
What’s happened to them? All the insects are dying.
This summer, we swatted away hardly any flies
The bees were just harbingers, canary-analogues.
On the river, plaintive ducks call to one another.
Kookaburras cackle and cockatoos screech.
We find a pigeon chick on the path, and the dogs
Nose at it. It nestles into my hands and we take it
To bright-light overly-efficient vets, fill out
Paperwork in triplicate and it is summarily
Whisked away without an opportunity
For the 10 year old to say goodbye.
We’ll never know whether it is “humanely euthanased”
or placed with trained wildlife carers but
This has felt more like a transaction
Than a rescue and we are more disconnected
From home than ever before.
We chase rumours of wombats off the path.
Walk the dogs that way instead of the usual route.
To the left of the bridge, maybe. One of the dudes
From Odyssey House said he saw one down there
Yesterday morning. He was sitting on the stone steps
Next to the Yarra, nursing a beer at 9am.
It’s dusk. We don’t see any wombats.
Our children are marching for the climate in two days time,
Skipping school. She says, “maybe write something on your poster
About the local environment?” and the nine-year-old responds,
“No, mum, this is global,” and she draws the world and beneath it
“They’ll go in a blink, don’t let them sink…”
The air is thick with smoke. The creek is suddenly cloudy.
The sky is red and pink and the wind whips through the trees.
We don’t even bother going to the bridge
To look for platypus.