There’s a flicker of amber in the tops of the tarahinau. The last of the light is strafing across the paddocks and setting the grassy canopy aflame, and amidst this gently swaying background, there is a small bird. It’s orange in the evening light, but normally it’s a lemony yellow. It’s tiny, the Chatham’s answer to a riroriro, Grey warbler : the Chatham warbler. The youngsters are yellow, brightening to white and fawn as they age, with a rich red eye. Their song is simpler, sweeter and brighter than that of Grey warblers. And they’re curious.

Hiking in the lush green of the Tuku valley, I meet many warblers over the course of a day bringing in rat traps. They appear whenever I pause to breathe, or to pick up another trap. Sometimes I just feel the sudden urge to stop – and one appears in the ferns in front of me, or in the lichen-laden boughs of tarahinau. Little yellow youngsters, bright adults with quizzical eyes. They flit close enough to touch, hopping down to see what this lumbering pack-beast is before busying themselves again with finding little bugs.

Every time it leaves me a bit breathless with joy. It’s that simple moment of recognition – another species seeing you, wondering, and then continuing with their lives. You can never know what it is that goes through their minds, but that moment of recognition is enough. A shared moment – eyes meeting.

A simple curiosity from both sides.