The bird watcher called his daughter Tui, knowing many would think first of beer when they heard her name. Her hair came in thick and black; sometimes he’d catch a greenish glint out of the corner of his eye, much to his delight.
After Tui drowned, it felt as if he was looking at the world through the wrong end of his binoculars, everything so small and trivial. Even watching the butcher's wife undress lost its appeal.
He hasn’t noticed the mōhua nesting in his backyard, or seen the shining cuckoo slip in and lay its egg.
He needs time.