The thousands small birds of January in their smooth soaring cloud finding the trees.

I love the solitude of reading. I love the deep dive into someone else's story, the delicious ache of a last page.

Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.

Peter Conners stunning prose poems are packed with keen sensitivity, dreaminess, and wit. I love his time travels, the vibrant layering of image and detail. Try taking walks as you are reading this book- the dazzle of landscapes, inner and outer, feel replenished and rich. This is language and vision I want to come home to again and again.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

I keep thinking, we teach children to use language to solve their disputes. We teach them not to hit and fight and bite. Then look what adults do!

When allowed to return to the class, your feelings of humility and lonesomeness will render you a much finer student and person.