In the corner of the forty-paned window at the Camp, feeding from a roofed flat, the nuthatches, chickadees, sparrows, bluejays, cardinals flew in and grabbed something up and flew off, and the poems did and keep doing likewise, hunting for what to trust. All taken together they sound like what they do, not what they say: the author is throwing the dice, the stakes are high: his long writs are loose, he's on a roll. -- James Baker Hall