Arriving as a friend’s condolence message on the death of our pet rabbit, Kurahara’s title poem was an invitation to explore the rest of his 1965 volume, a delightful bonus being a correspondence with his translator William Elliott. Are the “small yellow lights” in “Sunset” the down of chicks the frustrated birder hoped to glimpse in the thicket before losing daylight, or fireflies, or reflections of the sun on bamboo? Or are we to decide for ourselves?