HAWK, I'M YOUR BROTHER

Baylor's bare columns of prose and Parnall's similarly sparse line drawings suit each other and their desert setting, and together they set an accepting mood for the slight but firmly grounded tale of Rudy Soto, who has wanted only to fly since infancy. Believing that by some magic the two of them will learn together, he steals a young hawk from a nest and keeps it, caged or on a string--until he recognizes that familiar desire for flight in the captive's eyes and so, releasing it, comes as close as he will to flying himself. A sharp, fleeting dream in the sun--and Baylor's controlled lift and flow carries it off.