Our local korimako has set up shop to taunt us with their melody
Insistent, tuneful, repetitive, hiding we think in the giant macrocarpa
we spot tui dancing from pohutukawa to cabbage tree and eucalypt

a breeze lifts so that leaves lift too and sunshine obscures our view
fat wood pigeons (the kereru) fly drunkenly low almost acrobatic
but our local korimako makes more noise than any of them, show-off

I creep up the driveway toward the macrocarpa, the way I do at night
when our local morepork is hooting and tooting and talking to me
they also hide and I’m certain detect my silent footsteps, so stop

And instead, I whistle back to the korimako, and considering I rarely
match proper pitch with pop songs, it’s surprising that they hear me
but they do, and we whistle back and forth, friends for an afternoon

me and my local korimako