in a clay bank at tauihu beach
kōtare were nesting, their chicks
burbled from a small hole,
sounding like a dial-up modem.
we walked as a family then,
intrigued, soaking in sun,
synched in sorrow.
kōtare, you said,
bludgeon small rodents and birds,
then their croaky young
tear and wrench;
a sparagmos feast
in gurgling darkness.
—
those great, cold mudflats
unveiled by the manukau
gleam today
and I am alone.
my sneakers squelch then crunch
over slimy, sharp-lipped oyster shells.
the clay bank beside me is empty, in it
violent, shining kōtare once nested,
but they won’t be nesting now.
