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<p>In Richard Langston’s poem “Hill walk,” he proffers a handful of things that move us over the course of a day — words said or read, notes played, the sight of halting steps taken by a sibling. We marvel at the sound of an unfamiliar bird call, but there’s a startling mystery to the human heart and what it responds to (or doesn’t) and one that we don’t always mark.</p><p>Richard Langston is a veteran broadcast journalist and director. He comes from Dunedin, New Zealand, and was a driving force in the city’s music scene in the 1980s. He now lives in Wellington and is a proud member of the three-person South Wellington Poetry Society. His poetry collection, <a href="https://thecubapress.nz/shop/shadows/?srsltid=AfmBOoqG_1RkpHNRcijZoQNy29nhfCYH9TI26-Y07FUXxmWIIYkdO22a"><i>Five O’Clock Shadows</i></a><i>,</i> was published in 2020 by The Cuba Press.</p><p><a href="https://onbeing.org/programs/richard-langston-hill-walk/#transcript">Find the transcript</a> for this show at onbeing.org.</p...