Read this article in ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi
By Ben Catcho
I was born on the high slopes of Maunakea, where māmane trees feed my body and the wind carries old songs. My first memory is a forest full of voices woven together like a mele, the songs of the forest.
As I grew, I noticed the mountain changed. Hooves mark the honua. Forests thinned. New insects arrived, carrying sickness my wings could not outrun. One by one, the voices faded. Some mornings, I call and only the wind answers.
Still, I fly.
Not far, but far enough to find the next tree, the next seed, the next sunrise. This mountain is written into my feathers. I carry what was lost and what still hopes to grow.
I see humans now, some who take without listening, and others who walk softly, plant trees, and learn our names. When keiki point to the sky and say, “E nānā ʻike au iā palila” my heart lifts.
I am not just a bird.
I am a reminder: survival is a relationship.
