Except in their length and in the manner in which they exist upon the page (a page of intimate size in a volume of modest dimensions), the fourteen more or less brief pieces that comprise her new collection do not, at first, appear to be poems. They are too modest in their formal devices and effect, striking the eye and mind rather like the prosaic musing of a naturalist on holiday. Although not rigorous, the habit of attention to plants, birds, fish, landscapes and the “ceremonies” of those inhabiting them – the flora, fauna, topography, and anthropology of a world open to inspection by anyone equipped with sensitivity – is there; so, too, is the regard for classification and analysis. But Rantala is a poet. (She is also a fabricator in this volume of charming and eccentric illustrations reminiscent of Thurber’s.)