Sometimes the books that affect us most profoundly are the most difficult to write about; this has been the case for me, with Wendy McGrath’s poems in The Beauty of Vultures, which was published in April this year—a collaborative work with photographer (and musician) Danny Miles.

Not a week has passed, wherein I did not spend some time with it—trying to deduce what I found so beautiful but, simultaneously, painful about this slim volume which pairs verses with photographs of birds (also, a fawn, a raccoon, and a hare).

And I would think to myself: why can’t I write about this book? But, also: why can’t I dismiss the idea of writing about it?

I think I’ve figured it out, but not while I was thinking about this book: I figured it out after I was listening to the news and quietly crying about a certain report (I honestly don’t remember the topic).

All while thinking about how despair and sorrow are evident in every report, even when though so much is unreported and underreported while certain stories are relentlessly centred. Thinking about how journalists and storytellers are silenced and persecuted by autocrats and dictators. Thinking about how many stories are lost, and how many meaningful moments are unobserved.

If that feels like a circular thought, it is. Recently, a lot of things have felt like a circle, spinning.

NeWest Press

Despite this spinning, my reading has remained linear: I pick up a book and I read the first page, then move linearly through the series of pages until I reach the last one and shelve it (or return it to the library) once more.

So it didn’t affect my first reading of The Beauty of Vultures. I began with the short essay which describes how she reached out to Danny Miles, who responded by sharing some of his photographs. Then read the shorter essay by Danny Miles, who is also a musician. So that their thoughts—some individual and some shared—were humming in the background as I read through the collection for the first time.

But it did affect later rereading, in a series of small rounds: a handful of the poems, here and there. Like a tonic.

In rereading, I didn’t revisit the various artworks or painters, songs or rhymes, maps or Wikipedia pages (although that had been enjoyable): I only wanted to return to the small circle of awareness and connection, patience and compassion, collaboration and curiosity that exists here, between these covers.

It wouldn’t have been enough to tell you that sometimes these poems are funny, sometimes pointed. Or that sometimes the photographs manage to capture both stillness and motion.

Because what I truly valued was the evidence that there is tremendous power in one person reaching out to another person and in that person being prepared to extend the reach. And right here, on the pages of Wendy McGrath’s and Danny Miles’ The Beauty of Vultures, a reader can see this happening. Can see the circle taking shape, building. Can see that each person inside the circle is expanding it, its shape shifting even when it’s already been captured in ink on a page.

Wendy McGrath’s books have moved me before; the precision and poignancy of her richly textured coming-of-age story, and the attention-to-detail in her work overall, are evident here, too. And the collaborative spirit was similarly evident in her work with printmaker Walter Jule in A Revision of Forward (poems and artwork published in 2015).

But this is something else. Both invitation and celebration: The Beauty of Vultures embodies the transformational power of creativity and attention. It is not a difficult read: it has been a boon to read during difficult times.