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Michael Delp's Mad Angler alter ego is equal parts environmental crusader and water shaman, and his hostility toward those "feral hogs of greed" isn't so much invective or diatribe as it is an appeal for sanity in a world gone, well, mad. And at the "heart of the heart" of these poems is a voice attempting to transpose madness into song, rant into meditation, "the mist coming off the water," and in spite of the "piss swill of corporate runoff."

And so, the occasion of these persona poems is twofold: First, to confront and speak - and in direct and unavoidable proximity to those "darker hearts of developers" - the language of cherishing and its corollary, the spirit and pursuit of preservation. And secondly to foster a respect for, and to defend the ancient and abiding imperative of committed stewardship.

I say, cheers for such madness left unchecked and unapologetic, a wildness of heart that celebrates and holds every feeder creek and current, every wetland and backwater and swamp. Edgy, irate, calling out the "soul traders," the Mad Angler's passion for moving water runs deep and in the mysterious, and beautiful and oftentimes haunting images of these poems.