“…the unfurling of a punga; the smell of decomposing fronds as I am buried beneath them; the feel of rimu needles in my hair; the taste of gorse flowers; the pull of gravity on a slope whilst emulating the soaring of a karearea; a Norwegian moose song; the stomp of a hoof; picking up rubbish and the story of a bird with a broken neck. She transforms into the wounded creature embodying such beauty and horror in her death throes that grief wells up in my throat as I re-join the group.” Read the review