Butler's cartoony collage earthwork makes a highly appropriate match for Rosen's avalanche of ABCs. Bobby chucks a snowball and things get quickly out of hand: A Cat-food can gets clobbered, then a Doghouse, Evergreens, and a Fence. Every object adheres to the gathering mass, a juggernaut that reaches critical proportions around the letter N, spiraling off into outerspace, inhaling intergalactic rainbows, stars, and time itself. All of this happens in rhyme, and readers will be smiling through their impatience to see just how Rosen is going to bring this messy mass home: ""What else was left to feed the ball?/It filled the Universe!/The only place that it could go/was somewhere in reverse."" The mass, shedding objects, returns to Earth, back to the snowy slope, back to Bobby's dog, Zippy, in a collapsing of time and space that would make a black hole proud. In fact, did it all really happen? The nub of this lunacy is that the alphabet still has 26 letters; no matter what words they form, they carry their own specific gravity, a constant in all the delightful flux.