Travel Series: Yellow River, Kakadu National Park

The contestation over the source of the name reinforces its slippery nature in the hands of man. Untamed, everchanging, powerful. The Yellow River: a form as fluid as its mass in wet season.

Dry season: slow, lulling, weighted heavy brown shoulders out vibrant yellow. Birds sun themselves on protruding rocks, finding the glory amidst the unweilding landscape as they exhibit their plumage for onlookers. Fish scurry and scatter as dragonfly dip, dip, dip to rise high, overlooking proceedings.

'Overlooking' is a bureaucratic role here as the true monitor of equilibrium sulks through the water, eyes above yet body below. An amphibion of two harmonious parts: king of land and sea. The crocodile wears its authority, an armour as tough as its prehistoric coat. A protective cape, vanishing mammals and water-dwelling in one fell swoop. Just like that; harmony is restored.

A boat chugs along past, a collective goggler of today's proceedings. Snap, snap. The camera captures the exhibition of the crocodile's teeth as it yawns lazily. It could...but it won't. A jerk of muscle here, a powerful exclamation of exhaustion there, is all that's needed to suggest its potential for danger. Controlled power, the most dangerous kind. Humans: you're not nearly worth the intelligence of the crocodile. Too much of a sitting duck.

And the ducks sit, whistling away by the crocodiles side, knowing that their pitifully easy capture places them at the side of environments most threatening predator. It need not waste energy on easy bait.