The West found in Linda Hasselstrom's poems is neither the mythical Old West nor the New West of ranchettes and trophy homes. Hasselstrom's aria is set to the rhythms of the authentic West, laced with lyrical realism, and distilled to the sharp crispness of a plains morning. Here you'll find the night heron whose "slender beak descends, a sudden hammer on a silver spine." You'll "give yourself sunsets]]in shades of pink and gold" while "long tatters curl eastward like discarded ribbons."