On the postcard, “Kereru” the Wood Pigeon nestles in the bush. It came as a surprise, from a New Zealand friend who took care of me and Julia when we went for a visit a few years ago. We landed in Auckland, a sprawling city with little character. Our friend took us to a park where sheep grazed on the slopes and baby ferns curled up like question marks. His companion was an old dog. They both looked sad.
“I remember what you said to me, something like, ‘why don’t you open your heart?'” he wrote, “I just finished reading your poems. Don’t ask me,’what took you so long?'” The dog had died soon after we left.
An urban hermit, he jogs in the park every morning just before sunrise. “Quiet and peaceful,” he continued. But is it really?
