It’s a fine thing to keep company with William Kelley Woolfitt in these poems that travel widely but also turn inward, toward what home is. I prize his observations of the living world, sharp with abundance and loss, and his gentle way of entering human dilemma, which allows him to illuminate so much about it. Perhaps best of all, as the title promises, these poems sing. I find Woolfitt’s pared, musical line sheer pleasure. “Dog days, shut sky, zero rain.” “Drifts of kittiwakes still blizzard the islet…” Beautiful.
-–Lisa Coffman, author of Likely and Less Obvious Gods
As William Woolfitt’s poems dig into the nonhuman for meaning like the three-toothed land snail after water, they find there music made of bones. Groundwater devours rock with its dripping metronome, sheet-web spiders spin swathes of blessing, and shrews walk on creeks and become apostles beaded with air bubbles. Ranging in its short compass from internment camps to elk hunts and from islands to the Appalachian Trail, Chorus Frog is alive with Woolfitt’s sense of the marvelous and the sacred.
—Catherine Carter, author of The Memory of Gills
Some other Yellow Flag poets