The black sands of the Tasman Sea
breach the shoreline like a burnt hand
clutching at Aotearoa.
White gannets drift from the cliffs at Muriwai.
They mate for life taking turns to feed
single chicks who learn to fly crossing this
unforgiving stretch to Australia.
Asian tourists now flock here.
Sun hats and sunscreen,
face masks and photographs.
A man fishes off the rocks
with a telescopic rod
while overhead, gannets
with lines that look designed
by Italian car manufacturers
just hang in midair,
scanning the clifftop for their nest
upon which they descend
with a perfunctory squawk
to regurgitate pilchards
into the waiting beaks
of hungry young.
We join the pilgrimage.
Ascend the wooden steps,
crowd the barriers to
relieve our burden and
impose our curiosity.
Every day: thousands,
maybe millions of photographs.
I read a study of gannets
in Cape Cod in America
where they attached GPS
and a camera to the backs of 48 birds
to track how they used information
from other gannets to locate
foraging sites on the ocean.
Basically, all they found
was that as one gannet arrived,
others took off in the same
direction from which the arriving
bird came. No shit.
I follow the crowd too.
Mustered, flustered,
photographed with my kids
and my partner for life.
Posted on Facebook.
Favourited on Instagram.
I fly in the direction
that my network tells me to.
I regurgitate.