Mora (Tomâ€¡s and the Library Lady, 1997, etc.) celebrates the people, creatures, and landscapes of the American southwest through poetry of mixed quality. Some of the poems have an ear-pleasing music that lifts the words from the page and sets them dancing: ""Coyote spies/new moon, slight/grin, high/in the sky./Coyote licks/cold, white/shine, mouthful/of stars."" Others are both postured and tortured: ""Two ravens spread their wings, rise/into whispers/of great pines, over mountains blue/with memories."" Jenkins's accompanying cut-paper collages possess the same prismatic energy he brought to his Biggest, Fastest, Strongest (1995, not reviewed). Occasionally Mora and Jenkins are at odds, as in ""Tall Walking Woman,"" where Mom is all minute observation and Jenkins all atmosphere, but when their efforts fuse, they lyrically summon the special qualities of a singular landscape.