before the pale winter sun
has entertained thoughts
of pushing
its watercolour light
into the unfolded corners
of  this long cold night
a solitary Tui
perched
in the highest branches
of the ancient Puriri tree
outside my sleeping windows
sings
searching out his mate
serenading in another
distilled day
and filling my weary being
with little droplets of joy
the white tufted bird
is just being a bird
for him
nothing extraordinary
for me
his complex trills
clicks whirs
interspersed
with melodic bell like
bursts of song
cast out
into the monochromatic dawn
seeming to bleed colour
into the grayscale
feeds my poets soul

© J.C.