Baylor's usual solitary musings give way here to a reported dialogue in the same receptive mood and columned prose, but with a beguiling addition of gentle amusement. It begins in an alfalfa field, when "". . . I saw/ this little farm kid. . . watching/ ladybugs. . . ."" She shows him her favorite bug: ""To tell the truth,/ I couldn't see/ much difference between/ that one/ and about a million/ others."" But when, at her urging, he chooses his favorite, ""She looked surprised./ 'I can't believe/ you like/ that one./ I passed her up/ about two days/ ago. . ./ but that's your/ business.' "" And so she leads him into a ""tell-what-your-favorite-thing-is"" game, naming colors, things to touch, places to live (hers is in a tree, his a cave with foxes), dreams. . . until at the end both choose ""now"" as their favorite time of day. ""I wasn't sure/ she'd/ let us both/ choose/ the same thing/ but/ she was/ nice/ about it.// She said,/ 'We can./ That's my favorite way/ to end the game.' "" Parker's hummy, tranquil watercolors would seem to be just right for Baylor's laconic lyricism; unfortunately, too many of the pictures are merely limp and vacant where the text is resonantly spare. Nevertheless, it's a pleasure to share the encounter.