The King Kamehameha Day Parade would not be a parade without Pa’u riders. As they pass by, a contingent from each of the eight islands from the old Hawaiian Kingdom, one has to marvel at the preparation behind the pageantry. The day before the parade, plants, seeds, pods, vines and flowers are collected for the elaborate haku lei and corsages for their hair. On the morning of the parade, historically for protection, the riders are tightly wrapped up in 12 yards of fabric held together by six dried, unpolished kukui nuts.

As a photographer, the parade offers an abundance of opportunities.  But the problem has always been finding a location with a background void of telephone wires, street signs, or parked cars.  And then there are all the other photographers who for some reason want to stand exactly where you are standing.

In any event, I was lucky enough to capture this beautiful princess, from the island of Hawaii, passing by with an unencumbered background.  The red flowers adorning her dress and crown are from the Ohi’a tree.  Even the Ohi’a carries a mythological background, which of course involves love and jealousy. Pele, you see, met a handsome warrior named Ohi’a whom she wanted to marry.  But, as luck would have it, Ohi’a had already pledged his love to Lehua. This did not sit well with Pele, who in a moment of rage turned O’hia into a twisted tree. Lehua was heartbroken.  The gods then felt sorry for Lehua and turned Lehua into a flow on the Ohi’a tree so that the two lovers would be forever joined.  Hawaiian folklore says that if you pluck the Lehua blossom you are separating the lovers and it will rain that day.

It has been raining a lot here lately.  Global warming or lost love?

Since moving to Hawaii, I have not needed an alarm clock.  Each morning the silence of the night is broken by the sunrise and the orchestration and revelry of songbirds celebrating another day in paradise. It is an instinct that has been bred into them.  Even when they can’t see the sun or it can’t be seen in the darkest recess of a tropical forest at the bottom of a gulch, the birds begin to sing.

The players in the band are an eclectic mix of endemic, introduced and indigenous crooners and torch singers.  There’s Java Sparrow, Saffron Finch, Red-billed Leiothrix,  Kalij Pheasant, Japanese White-eye, House Finch, House Sparrow, Spotted Dove, Myna, Yellow-fronted Canary, and Nutmeg Mannikin, all chirping in with their own unique version of Jill Scott’s “Gotta Get Up”.

But I have to say it is the Northern Red Cardinal that is the bugle boy of the bunch, always the first voice heard at dawn.  His clear whistled notes are easily identifiable from a distance.  I thought I’d heard all his tunes until the day this image was taken.  Instead of his usual clear alternating up and down whistles, as he looked around, he called out in a soft, questioning, cooing tone.  It wasn’t long before the female of the species sidled up next to him.

Booty call baby!