The Golden Pilgrimage by Steven Nightingale

Reading Steven Nightingale’s sonnets is like sitting in the backyard on a warm waxing quarter moon summer night with a large glass of Vince Arroyo dark red zinfandel, a small fragrant nightwind soughing its way home through the cedar and live oaks, and a minor god’s ransom of jeweled fireflies dancing, calling the stars to pop out and come play, one by one.

—David Lee