Feather Brains

By David Hill. Illustrated by Kelly Body.

"They’re at it again!’’ my wife Beth cried. ‘’The brutes!’’ 

I joined her on the back concrete. Yes, the two brutes were there, squatting in the top branches of our magnolia ‘Vulcan’, wearing their white bib overalls and iridescent green-blue tops, munching on the magnolia buds. A pair of kererū. 

‘’Gerroff!’’ I yelled. ‘’Vanish!’’ Two tiny, shiny heads turned towards me in a puzzled manner. Then they turned back, and the munching restarted. 

I lurched across the lawn, seized the magnolia’s trunk, and shook it. I could almost hear the response making its slow trek from small brains to large wings, 4m above me. 

Finally, those wings spread, and both birds lifted off, in that wonderful kererū imitation of a flying mattress, curving down then labouring up on their whoof-whoof-whoof trajectory. They settled on the power line, gazing back at me in mild surprise. What was I making such a fuss about? 

If there’s ever a poll for Aotearoa’s Funniest Bird of the Year, kererū would win claws down. 

Our power line makes a good perch for them. Our neighbour’s line is much looser, and turns into a 60-degree slope if any weight is placed on it. Yet kererū (and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the same ones each time) constantly land on it, then look startled as they slide groundwards. I even saw one try to perch on the steep diagonal strut of a playground swing once. We don’t need to worry about their ever taking over the world. 

They gorge on our guava trees, then sun themselves on the branches while the fruit starts to ferment in their crop. After 20 minutes or so, you’d swear you can hear the drunken singing start up. 

They’ve given us moments of sheer joy. A different neighbour’s cat likes to prowl our garden. One time, a kererū curving down on its first, clumsy stage of lift-off, was met by a feline hurling itself upwards for some kererū kedgeree.

The cat missed. The bird didn’t. Six hundred grammes of Hemiphaga novaeseelandiae sent the predator somersualting across the grass, while its intended prey curved up onto the non-sagging power line, and sat there, thinking about life. 

Another time, a Thwummp! on our back bedroom window brought Beth and me hurrying through to check. An oily stain and a few fluffs of down on the glass told the story. A kererū had let its guavas ferment a little too long, then tried to drive home. 

There it was, staggering around on the ground, telling itself it wouldn’t ever touch the stuff again. We watched in concern till it got airborne, veering a bit at first, before heading home to sleep it off. 

We admire other native birds for their agility, versatility, nobility, bravery. Kererū show none of those qualities. 

OK, they’re handsome. They’re admirably monogamous, usually pairing for life after that endearing courtship ritual where they sit side by side, occasionally nuzzling beaks together. They’re environmentally valuable; their omnivorous eating and habit of leaving seeds in their droppings over wide areas makes them essential to the health of our podocarp broadleaf forests. 

But I reckon it’s the sheer harmlessness, the utter gormlessness of kererū that make us like them. We’ve all heard how they would stay sitting on branches while early Māori thrust spears at them from below. That vulnerable innocence still makes them loveable. 

Although she won’t admit it, I suspect Beth’s actually willing to allow them a share of her Vulcan magnolia. The only problem is getting their feathery mini-brains to understand what ‘’share’’ means.

David Hill (right) is a highly regarded New Zealand writer, playwright, poet, columnist, and critic. He is also a long-time Forest & Bird member and supporter, who lives in New Plymouth.