A dull light slowly pervades through my curtainless window, a gentle awakening. I tug on my cotton shirt and heave open the badly hung door to my bedroom, barefeet slapping against the wooden floorboards through the kitchen.
Sliding open the glass door to the deck, I see the sun has not yet broken over Ruahine on the southernmost tip of the island, the sky made up of endless swathes of milky blue and warm pink hues. I hear the waves breaking gently onto the beach and witness fishermen keen to get their boats into the water, backing their trailers down the boat ramp and wading knee deep into the drifts. Thinking of a box of cold beers and a bucket of fresh snapper.
I stretch my arms above, stand on my tip toes, yawn loudly. Morning world.
The cicadas slowly wake as the sun creeps up, casting hot orange light onto damp, dense bush. Tuis can be heard rustling among ferns, singing their most unusual song.
Metal on metal as I slam the kettle onto the gas stove, thought of hot coffee on my mind. I fill the large cast iron pan from the tap outside, the days water, only seven mosquito larvae today.
My cousin emerges, he’s been reading for an hour in bed, stomps along the deck to go round the back for a mimi. The house shudders.
The kettle boils, whistles, screams. It’s desperate to be poured. I relieve it, gladly, and the morning rolls away into endless cups of steaming tea and watching cars drop down into the bay. People living their lives, unaware of being witnessed by the bush dwellers. The smell of warm ocean and wet ferns breezes through the open windows, tugs at the cobwebs and blows through the clothes that have been forgotten about on the line for days.
Clear blue day, woes at bay.