Birds of New Zealand
Made in August 2025
Morepork in Twilight Bush
The morepork, or ruru, is New Zealand’s only native owl, named for its haunting two-note call that echoes through the night.
With large golden eyes and mottled brown plumage, it blends perfectly into the bush by day and becomes a silent hunter by night.
In the soft purple light of twilight, when the forest hushes, the ruru’s gaze seems to hold both curiosity and ancient wisdom.
With large golden eyes and mottled brown plumage, it blends perfectly into the bush by day and becomes a silent hunter by night.
In the soft purple light of twilight, when the forest hushes, the ruru’s gaze seems to hold both curiosity and ancient wisdom.
Kea in the Southern Alps
The kea is the world’s only alpine parrot, an intelligent and mischievous bird famous for unzipping backpacks and stealing boots.
Found in the South Island’s Southern Alps, kea thrive in rugged mountain terrain where snow tussock meets sheer rock faces.
Their olive-green plumage hides brilliant flashes of orange under their wings, a secret splash of colour only visible in flight.
Found in the South Island’s Southern Alps, kea thrive in rugged mountain terrain where snow tussock meets sheer rock faces.
Their olive-green plumage hides brilliant flashes of orange under their wings, a secret splash of colour only visible in flight.
Kererū in Miro Tree
The kererū, or New Zealand wood pigeon, is a large, gentle forest bird with glossy green and purple plumage.
They play a crucial role in seed dispersal, swallowing native berries whole, including those of the miro tree, whose fruits they relish.
In the dappled summer light of the forest canopy, a kererū can sit so still you might miss it entirely… until it takes off with the sound of beating wings like a sudden drumroll
They play a crucial role in seed dispersal, swallowing native berries whole, including those of the miro tree, whose fruits they relish.
In the dappled summer light of the forest canopy, a kererū can sit so still you might miss it entirely… until it takes off with the sound of beating wings like a sudden drumroll
Takapu at Cape Kidnappers
The takapu, or Australasian gannet, is a master of the sea dive, folding its long white wings tipped with black and plunging into the waves at high speed to catch fish.
At Cape Kidnappers on the North Island’s east coast, they nest in large, noisy colonies on dramatic white cliffs overlooking turquoise water.
The sight of hundreds of birds wheeling in the sunlight is nothing short of breathtaking.
At Cape Kidnappers on the North Island’s east coast, they nest in large, noisy colonies on dramatic white cliffs overlooking turquoise water.
The sight of hundreds of birds wheeling in the sunlight is nothing short of breathtaking.
Kākāpō in Night Forest
The kākāpō is the heaviest parrot in the world and one of New Zealand’s rarest treasures. Nocturnal and flightless, it moves with a slow, deliberate waddle through the forest floor, its moss-green feathers blending perfectly with the undergrowth.
Once widespread, it now survives only on predator-free islands under intensive conservation.
In the stillness of the night forest, its gentle, musky scent and booming mating call are part of an ancient rhythm nearly lost.
Once widespread, it now survives only on predator-free islands under intensive conservation.
In the stillness of the night forest, its gentle, musky scent and booming mating call are part of an ancient rhythm nearly lost.
Hoiho on Otago Coast
The hoiho, or yellow-eyed penguin, is one of the rarest penguin species in the world, found only in New Zealand. Its pale golden eyes and soft yellow head markings stand out against its slate-grey body.
Breeding pairs nest in dense coastal vegetation, often far from other penguins.
On the windswept Otago coastline, they emerge from the surf and waddle through the grasses as the sun sinks low over the Pacific.
Breeding pairs nest in dense coastal vegetation, often far from other penguins.
On the windswept Otago coastline, they emerge from the surf and waddle through the grasses as the sun sinks low over the Pacific.
Takahē in Fiordland
The takahē is a large, flightless bird once thought extinct until its dramatic rediscovery in the Murchison Mountains in 1948. With deep cobalt-blue and emerald plumage and a bright red beak, it grazes on alpine tussock and sedges.
In the Fiordland high country, surrounded by jagged peaks and mirror-like lakes, the takahē is a living emblem of endurance against all odds.
In the Fiordland high country, surrounded by jagged peaks and mirror-like lakes, the takahē is a living emblem of endurance against all odds.
Royal Spoonbill in Wetlands
The royal spoonbill is an elegant wading bird, its pure white plumage offset by a long black spoon-shaped bill that sweeps side-to-side in the shallows to catch fish and crustaceans.
During breeding season, it grows a distinctive crest of fine feathers that catches the light.
In New Zealand’s wetlands, among the raupō reeds and glassy water, the spoonbill is a ghostly yet graceful presence.
During breeding season, it grows a distinctive crest of fine feathers that catches the light.
In New Zealand’s wetlands, among the raupō reeds and glassy water, the spoonbill is a ghostly yet graceful presence.
Pīwakawaka in Fern Glade
Small but endlessly energetic, the pīwakawaka (fantail) is a common companion in the bush, often flitting close to people to catch insects disturbed by their footsteps.
Its tail fans wide in mid-flight, helping it twist and turn with acrobatic precision.
Pīwakawaka are perfectly at home among the fronds of native ponga ferns, where shafts of sunlight filter through the canopy in green-gold beams.
Its tail fans wide in mid-flight, helping it twist and turn with acrobatic precision.
Pīwakawaka are perfectly at home among the fronds of native ponga ferns, where shafts of sunlight filter through the canopy in green-gold beams.
Kākā in Rimu Forest
The kākā is a large forest parrot related to the kea, with warm reddish-brown plumage and a powerful curved beak for cracking seeds and tearing bark.
Once common, they now thrive mainly in protected forests, where towering rimu trees provide both shelter and food.
Mist weaving between the massive trunks adds an air of ancient stillness a reminder that this is a bird of old-growth wilderness.
Once common, they now thrive mainly in protected forests, where towering rimu trees provide both shelter and food.
Mist weaving between the massive trunks adds an air of ancient stillness a reminder that this is a bird of old-growth wilderness.
Kōkako in Dawn Mist
The kōkako is a shy forest bird with soft grey feathers and vivid blue wattles at its throat. Its haunting, bell-like song carries far through the bush, often heard before the bird itself is seen.
Perched on mossy branches in the cool dawn mist, the kōkako seems to belong to another age — one where the forest was the only cathedral.
Perched on mossy branches in the cool dawn mist, the kōkako seems to belong to another age — one where the forest was the only cathedral.
Black-fronted Tern over Braided River
Found only in New Zealand, the black-fronted tern is a sleek, agile flier with a black cap and grey body.
It nests on the gravel islands of braided rivers in the South Island, swooping low over turquoise channels to catch small fish and insects.
These river systems, framed by the Southern Alps, are wild and ever-changing, a perfect match for a bird always in motion.
It nests on the gravel islands of braided rivers in the South Island, swooping low over turquoise channels to catch small fish and insects.
These river systems, framed by the Southern Alps, are wild and ever-changing, a perfect match for a bird always in motion.
Wrybill in Coastal Lagoon
The wrybill is the only bird in the world with a beak that curves sideways — an adaptation that lets it probe under stones for insects and larvae.
Small and pale grey, it breeds on South Island riverbeds and migrates to northern estuaries in winter.
At the edge of a coastal lagoon, among driftwood and shells, the wrybill moves with quiet purpose, perfectly attuned to its tidal world.
Small and pale grey, it breeds on South Island riverbeds and migrates to northern estuaries in winter.
At the edge of a coastal lagoon, among driftwood and shells, the wrybill moves with quiet purpose, perfectly attuned to its tidal world.
Tūī in Kōwhai Tree
The tūī is one of Aotearoa’s most iconic songbirds, known for its iridescent green-blue feathers and the distinctive white feather tufts at its throat.
Its call is a mix of melodic notes and clicks, often mimicking other birds.
The kōwhai tree, with its bright golden blossoms, is a vital nectar source in spring, a feast that draws tūī in droves and turns the bush into a living choir.
Its call is a mix of melodic notes and clicks, often mimicking other birds.
The kōwhai tree, with its bright golden blossoms, is a vital nectar source in spring, a feast that draws tūī in droves and turns the bush into a living choir.
Seasons Reversed
August is a trickster month.
“August leans in, whispers ‘soon,’ and lets the tui sing the rest.”
It still wears winter’s coat, buttoned up and grey, but you can see the mischief in its eyes. It leaves frost on the grass in the morning just to watch you shiver, then warms your cheeks with sun before lunch.
The days are longer now, stretching like cats in the light, and the air smells faintly of something sweet and waking.
In the branches, the tui have already caught the secret. Their songs loop and twirl through the garden, shaking loose the first shy blossoms of the cherry trees.
Petals fall like confetti for a party that hasn’t even started yet. Somewhere in the distance, lambs are finding their feet, and the hills are turning the green of fresh paint.
The air holds that delicious contradiction of seasons, crisp enough to make you pull your jacket tighter, yet carrying the warmth of something just around the corner. You can almost hear the earth stretching, yawning, turning over in its sleep as the roots stir beneath. Even the clouds seem lighter, drifting like lazy thoughts across a patient sky.
August doesn’t say goodbye to winter, it winks at it, pockets the last of the chill, and hums a tune that only spring understands. And if you stand very still, you might catch it: the melody of petals falling, wings beating, and a promise so soft it could almost be mistaken for sunlight.
“August leans in, whispers ‘soon,’ and lets the tui sing the rest.”
It still wears winter’s coat, buttoned up and grey, but you can see the mischief in its eyes. It leaves frost on the grass in the morning just to watch you shiver, then warms your cheeks with sun before lunch.
The days are longer now, stretching like cats in the light, and the air smells faintly of something sweet and waking.
In the branches, the tui have already caught the secret. Their songs loop and twirl through the garden, shaking loose the first shy blossoms of the cherry trees.
Petals fall like confetti for a party that hasn’t even started yet. Somewhere in the distance, lambs are finding their feet, and the hills are turning the green of fresh paint.
The air holds that delicious contradiction of seasons, crisp enough to make you pull your jacket tighter, yet carrying the warmth of something just around the corner. You can almost hear the earth stretching, yawning, turning over in its sleep as the roots stir beneath. Even the clouds seem lighter, drifting like lazy thoughts across a patient sky.
August doesn’t say goodbye to winter, it winks at it, pockets the last of the chill, and hums a tune that only spring understands. And if you stand very still, you might catch it: the melody of petals falling, wings beating, and a promise so soft it could almost be mistaken for sunlight.
