When I write a song,
how can it truly live if all I do is sing it to the wind.
and though the fuchsia of the poui may sway in time,
the rigid roots curl up their toes in excitement
and the kiskadee and the blue dove too, cease their chirping in reception,
My song cannot take its first breath until it touches your heart

The hatch slides across turquoise waters
hungry eyes watch from underneath
a swishing tail and a surface explosion
causes a flight of glinting wings and yellow bodies.

Chuckling water laughs at me,
as it rushes by through the rocks,
up ahead a cobalt pool waits
deep and smooth as glass.

The mirrored sky reflection
on the still morning's flat water,
reveals to me the teal Kingfisher
watching from the brush.

Silver swirls haunt the shallows,
ghosting motion catches the eye,
green and brown scales suddenly revealed
by the morning sun between the rocks.

Gray green willow branches
dangle in the pristine river,
the Hyperborean water from mountain tops
steam as the sun glints off the surface.

Rufous wings flash in flight
yellow hues are seen through the underbrush
the raucous call of the kiskadee
echoes off the water.