It is snowing on the crabapple blossoms and lilacs. The greenleaves are frosted in white. The robin is singing as she doeseach day of spring, from just before dawn all the way throughtwilight. Even with the snow dusting her feathers.

I have recently returned from the other side of the world, NewZealand. I had the uncertainty of traveling standby, then theunexpected pleasure of getting on Business Class. Champagne,mimosa, wine, gourmet food, and a spacious, cushy seat with amassager for my back. I decided to ignore the good advice on howto prevent jet lag, and tasted everything. I had never beenacross the International Date Line.

When I arrived in Auckland, I had no sense of jet lag, or ofhaving crossed that imaginary line through the Pacific Ocean atabout 180 degrees longitude, which means in one moment it's oneday later. It was just a new morning in a different place. I hadexpectations about how exotic it must be, this far away. So onthe first day when I was walking around Brown's Bay, through theneighborhoods, I thought there must be some mistake. In front ofeach person's house were the same green plastic ecocyclecontainers that we have in Boulder. And when I found thebookstore and coffee shop, the music that greeted me was Shaggysinging "Angel". But even in the city the bird sounds were new.The Fantails were abundant, and willing to come quite close.

One of the reasons for coming to New Zealand was my invitation toteach in Auckland. I was given the top floor of Jan Leonard'shouse, where I had my own bedroom, bath, kitchenette, studio andporch overlooking Torbay Harbor. It was a twenty minute walkalong the shore and through the woods to Brown's Bay, where Icould have coffee and write. I stayed here for a week, giving aslide show of my current exhibit and teaching a bookmaking class.The dinners at Jan's house included two young women from Chinawho were on the North Island to finish high school and go on toUniversity. One of the women could speak English well enough forme to get some stories from her. I heard Chinese tales ofCreation, Good and Evil, and about her grandmother who is ahealer and lives in the Chinese countryside. She tells a story ofher grandmother curing her of nightmares and making an egg moveand stand up vertically without being touched, as if this isnothing special. When I ask her about the Chinese money papers webrought back from the Asian market her expression becomesalarmed. She tells me I must not use these gold and silver papersin my art, and goes into detail about how to burn them. She warnsJan and I against leaving our chopsticks apart, and places hersclose together on her bowl.

At the end of this week my son, Garrison, arrives to join me. Ourplan is to explore the wild west coast of the South Island. Hehas his fly fishing rod and the New Zealand Guide to birds. Alsocamping equipment. And we both have our journals. He has justfinished being the lead in his high school play "Guys and Dolls,"and has fallen in love with the female lead, Erin Rose, whom hehas practiced kissing a lot. At the Auckland Airport it ispouring rain when I pick him up, and we head out to Lake Taupo tolook for birds and trout on the Hinemaiaia River. Our first go attraveling on the left side of the road.

Now it is beginning to feel like the other side of the world. InTaupo the Maori chief has just died, and there is a big funeral.The Maori words are like music. I paint the title page in myjournal with a Maori tatoo pattern and the seven kinds of nightthey list in their creation story: Te Po-nui, Te Po-roa, TePo-uriuri, Te Po-kerekere, Te Po-tiwha, Te Po-tangotango, TePo-te-kitea. The Great Night, The Long Night, The Dark Night, TheIntensely Dark Night, The Gloom-laden Night, The Night to beFelt, The Night Unseen.

We take the ferry Arahura (Maori for "Pathway to Dawn") to theSouth Island. Cook Strait is full of dolphins and stories. It hasonly been a few hundred years since Captain Cook landed andEuropeans began to arrive on this island. Garrison and I see ourfirst Albatross and three hours later arrive in the harbor atPicton. I am considering the many names he has for me. Genius,Killer and Captain top the list, descending to Noodle-Brain,Poodle-Brain, Chump Bucket, and more affectionately, Munchkers.

I drink in the rivers and deserted beaches of the South Island,the words and sounds. The Bellbirds flock the rain forest andfill the kauri trees with a symphony of flutes and bells andwater. There are keas and kakas. Karaka, kutuku, kaikomaiko,kahikatoa, kuripaka, kopuwai, kaiamio, kotuku. At Lake Moeraki("to dream by day") there is a path through the rain forest andtree ferns to the Pacific. This is where the Fjordland CrestedPenguins come in from the Tasman Sea. We take a walk after darkto see the glow worms, which light up the trees like stars.

Later, on the east coast, we watch the Yellow-Eyed Penguins comein from the sea before sunset, to waddle up the sand cliffs inpairs to their nests. Running to each other, calling out, holdingout their flippers, moving slowly and stopping often on theirawkward uphill climb. The sunset surrounding us in a full circle.

By the time we got to Christchurch we were ready to comehome. We arrived back in Boulder the same evening that we leftAuckland.

Warm regards in spring,