If the apocalypse hits you will find me here. Ivy’s island off the northern tip of New Zealand where the people are few and the food has no predators… flightless birds.
Muscles the size of my hand, tiger striped, plucked easy off the beach. Fishing here means throwing lures at the fish you want, avoiding the ones you don’t and pulling in two if they decised to chomp each other on their way into the boat.
Food, peace and stewardship of the land, is the essence of this country.
Capitalist quandaries that bow their respects to the opulence afforded here. The political science kid in me must surrender to this placid land of sheep.