I followed the bone flute of the toroa, her wing
was broken and so the conservation team
euthanised her, and gave her bones to our marae
where they were cleaned by the whānau.
They gave white and soft ash feathers.
Long ones, short ones, and downy ones,
all with the smell of albatrosses.

My flute has taken a while to learn.
At our home in Waitati I played it
for an hour. It came first as peeps
so that the little birds came and talked
in the branches above me. Then
forty minutes in I began to make
long shrill sounds and larger birds came

to talk. Then I closed my eyes
and thought about this bird, how
she was a downy chick sitting
on the high, sea-facing head
of Pukekura, and blew
its long, sad sound
from its little life.