And I rage for Tino Rangitiratanga
How strange it is that I remember a line I read so very long ago.
"Bees in Mykanos hum in a minor chord"

And I am still here in this unsteady place of ebony water and bull kelp.
From where I stand with spine to rope,
I catch her in the act.
Head tossed to a throaty warble- eyes closed-
Undisturbed by silence or squall, undisturbed by the opposing sharp/flat cadences of weather.
And she floats on the breaktide, but music is her separate boat.
And see how her face is wet,
The notes caught in her throat like a waiting bird.
And she wishes you would choke her down, to finally release,
The Taonga Puoro surge in her chest, like waterfalls.
Because the scale is unpredictable.
Only a thrum, an incidental island,
A glissando of sand scattering the shadows of an anemic bellied fish.
So we sail through contrapuntal seas,
With private charts , common geography.
Artists, each in our own way.
And in this unsteady place, we do as we must,
We set down our tools and listen.
And watch her drift on out to sea