{"product_id":"ledger-isbn-9781524711719","title":"Ledger","description":"\u003cb\u003eA pivotal book of personal, ecological, and       political reckoning tuned toward issues of consequence to all who share       this world's current and future fate—\"Some       of the most important poetry in the world today\" (Naomi Shihab Nye, \u003ci\u003eThe       New York Times Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLedger\u003c\/i\u003e's pages hold the most important work yet by Jane Hirshfield, one of our most celebrated contemporary poets. From the already much-quoted opening lines of despair and defiance (\"Let them not say: we did not see it. \/ We saw\"), Hirshfield's poems inscribe a registry, both personal and communal, of our present-day predicaments.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey call us to deepened dimensions of thought, feeling, and action. They summon our responsibility to sustain one another and the earth while pondering, acutely and tenderly, the crises of refugees, justice, and climate. They consider \"the minimum mass for a whale, for a language, an ice cap,\" recognize the intimacies of connection, and meditate upon doubt and contentment, a library book with previously dog-eared corners, the hunger for surprise, and the debt we owe this world's continuing beauty.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHirshfield's signature alloy of fact and imagination, clarity and mystery, inquiry, observation, and embodied emotion has created a book of indispensable poems by a \"modern master\" (\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e).“In language of uncanny lyrical precision, Hirshfield's work redraws boundaries between the self and the natural world.” \u003cb\u003e—Jeremy Eichler, \u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Hirshfield] writes about what matters in the world . . . She is responsible with every word choice, every line a deliberate beat, each poem its own chrysalis of meaning . . . She gives you the observation of life as we’re all living it and the personal tragedy life entails, and then she slips in themes of planetary crisis. It’s the kind of gut punch good poems provide, the solid fist inside the velvet glove . . . This is a book to read front to back, then at random, then front to back again.” \u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth Crane, \u003ci\u003eVox\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A clear, steadying voice, and a firm reminder of the immensity and promise of one human life within the vast mystery of the world that holds it . . . [\u003ci\u003eLedger\u003c\/i\u003e] bears witness to Earth under duress—trees toppling, birds vanishing, oceans acidifying. But the poet holds no megaphone or manifesto. There’s a mournful quality to the work, a quiet and elegiac composure. The book is a ledger of loss and loss-to-come. Its subject is grim, but it is \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e a grim book. It’s a stirring call to action’s antecedent—awareness . . . For Hirshfield, every poem is a renewal of a lifelong intention to cultivate awareness.” \u003cb\u003e—Colleen Morton Busch, \u003ci\u003eOrion Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In her ninth book of poetry, Hirshfield, seeks to balance what we take with what we give, what we seek with what we find, what we observe with what we comprehend. In intimate poems of being, [she] poses meticulous equations of the self coping with doubt, hunger, age, and death. In equally balanced poems, she encompasses the ecological. \u003ci\u003eLedger\u003c\/i\u003e perfectly embodies Hirshfield’s carefully weighted tone as she reckons with our constant subtraction of Earth’s life forces and incessant addition of carbon to our atmosphere, acid to our seas . . . Hirshfield is tender, witty, philosophical, and clarion, knowing us to be creatures of yes and no, credits and debits. ‘We were our own future, \/ a furnace invented to burn itself up.’” \u003cb\u003e—Donna Seaman, \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Few search-artists have served as greater agents of transmutation than Jane Hirshfield—a poet of optimism and of lucidity, a champion of science and an ordained Buddhist, a poet who could write 'So few grains of happiness \/ measured against all the dark \/ and still the scales balance,' a poet who can balance and steady us against those times when we 'go to sleep in one world and wake in another' with her wondrous new collection, \u003ci\u003eLedger . . . \u003c\/i\u003ethis miraculous book . . . altogether re-saning.” —\u003cb\u003eMaria Popova, \u003ci\u003eBrainpickings.org\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Jane Hirshfield’s poems often feel like whole landscapes, graciously embracing the widest view and the tiniest sequins at once . . . Her longtime practice of Soto Zen Buddhism and her commitments to scientific knowledge and respect blend to create some of the most important poetry in the world today.” \u003cb\u003e—Naomi Shihab Nye, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e“Reading her work, I catch myself thinking that Hirshfield is the poet who orchestrates silences . . . It isn’t easy these days to find a poet who can do this while being also perfectly articulate and clear. Reading Hirshfield, I find myself coming back to Mahmoud Darwish’s idea that clarity is our ultimate mystery.” \u003cb\u003e—Ilya Kaminsky, \u003ci\u003eThe Paris Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Intimate, tender free verse . . . Hirshfield perfectly captures our individual sense of lostness, faced with undeniable catastrophe, while invoking our collective responsibility.”\u003cb\u003e —Fiona Sampson, \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“\u003ci\u003eLedger\u003c\/i\u003e is a watershed . . . a culmination. [Hirshfield's] voice, always inclusive and generous, swells to new levels of relevance, revelation, and resonance in these pages . . . Many poems in\u003ci\u003e Ledger\u003c\/i\u003e feel eerily prescient about our current confinement, as in ‘Cataclysm’ when ‘fish unschool’ and ‘sheeps unflock to separately graze’ . . . Rather than give in to despair, these poems place their faith in simple perseverance, coupled with humble, personal action. They offer a larger, longer planetary perspective and provide the spiritual food needed to sustain the effort.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eRebecca Foust,\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003ci\u003eWomen’s Voices for Change\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A new volume of poems by acclaimed poet Jane Hirshfield is an event. After reading the poems in \u003ci\u003eLedger\u003c\/i\u003e—a capacious, varied volume—it seems as if ordinary life is richer and deeper than before . . . A Hirshfield poem is an exercise in opening the self . . . The value of such work is beyond question.” \u003cb\u003e—Magdalena Kay, \u003ci\u003eWorld Literature Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The vigilant, deeply observed poems in \u003ci\u003eLedger\u003c\/i\u003e are an antidote to collective blindness.” —\u003cb\u003eJessica Zack, \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e“[Hirshfield] understands the world in all its happiness, melancholy, unpleasant surprise and moments of resilience.” —\u003cb\u003eAmy Bloom, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e“When a poet’s purpose is tied to our own fate, we tend to notice the poems more seriously because it’s not only the ‘dexterous pen and the beautiful hand,’ but a moral clarity we want . . . This happens while reading Hirshfield more than most . . . Writers are denizens of a complex world, figuring it out for us. They restore consciousness, rinse off language, and create a finer air. Hirshfield has done this for many years. \u003ci\u003eLedger \u003c\/i\u003econtinues that literary history. It is another invitation to find the many choices within ourselves.” —\u003cb\u003eGrace Cavelieri, \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Independent Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Hirshfield’s] stark, powerful poems are crafted so simply they seem effortless. Constructed largely of nouns and verbs . . . it’s hard to understand how they manage to evoke such a range of emotion. And yet they do, with a voice that at times seems like an old-world prophet, at times like a Zen Master . . . What emerges as one reads this book is a sense of mourning for what’s lost, and a piercing delight in what is left. By calling attention to the facts and figures of loss, by offering up a reckoning, \u003ci\u003eLedger\u003c\/i\u003e literally as well as figuratively reminds us of what counts.”\u003cb\u003e — Meryl Natchez, \u003ci\u003eZYZZYVA\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Poet Jane Hirshfield fuses science, loss, and wonder in her new collection, \u003ci\u003eLedger . . . \u003c\/i\u003eA tender and fearsome accounting of how humans have used and abused the planet. The poems are infused with loss, bafflement, and possibility.” —\u003cb\u003eRosemerry Wahtola Trommer, \u003ci\u003eThe Open Notebook\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hirshfield’s ability to distill a single image with vodka clarity is on full display in her ninth collection . . . Whatever exquisite form these poems take, they carry a haiku spirit.” \u003cb\u003e—Stephanie Pruitt-Gaines, \u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Hirshfield tackles some of the biggest questions we face as living beings . . . Her poetry and essays move between scales vast and miniscule, balancing awe and mundanity, the out of the ordinary and the everyday.”\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Marie Scarles\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTricycle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Masterful . . . Hirshfield urges a reckoning of human influence on—and interference with—the planet . . . [Her] world is one filled with beauty, from the ‘generosity’ of grass to humanity’s connection to the muskrat. This is both a paean and a heartbreaking plea.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Zen poetry for a bleak era . . . An exploration of the capacity for life, its value and purpose . . . Hirshfield’s hand is deft . . . We look very closely at an object or statement before lifting it to discover what else it can tell us about ourselves; a light shined outward, then the camera angle shifts and the light is back on us . . . Hirshfield’s collection does exactly what we expect, and a little more—more of the personal, more of the contemporary world and its problems, more transcendence through art.”\u003cb\u003e —Genevieve Walker, \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJANE HIRSHFIELD is the author of nine books of poetry, including \u003ci\u003eLedger; The Beauty; Come, Thief;\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eGiven Sugar, Given Salt. \u003c\/i\u003eShe is also the author of two now-classic collections of essays, \u003ci\u003eNine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eTen Windows: How Great Poems Transform the World,\u003c\/i\u003e and has edited and co-translated four books presenting the work of world poets from the past. Her books have received the Poetry Center Book Award, the California Book Award, and the Donald Hall-Jane Kenyon Prize in American Poetry and have been finalists for The National Book Critics Circle Award and England's T. S. Eliot Prize and long-listed for the National Book Award. Hirshfield has received fellowships from the Guggenheim and Rockefeller Foundations, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Academy of American Poets, and she presents her work at literary and interdisciplinary events worldwide. Her poems appear in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker, The Atlantic, The New York Review of Books, The Times Literary Supplement, The Washington Post, The New York Times, The New Republic, Harper's Magazine,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003ePoetry, \u003c\/i\u003eand have been selected for ten editions of \u003ci\u003eThe Best American Poetry.\u003c\/i\u003e A resident of Northern California, she is a 2019 elected member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and a former chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.LET THEM NOT SAY\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLet them not say: we did not see it.\u003cbr\u003eWe saw.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLet them not say: we did not hear it.\u003cbr\u003eWe heard.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLet them not say: they did not taste it.\u003cbr\u003eWe ate, we trembled.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLet them not say: it was not spoken, not written.\u003cbr\u003eWe spoke,\u003cbr\u003ewe witnessed with voices and hands.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLet them not say: they did nothing.\u003cbr\u003eWe did not-enough.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLet them say, as they must say something:\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA kerosene beauty.\u003cbr\u003eIt burned.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLet them say we warmed ourselves by it,\u003cbr\u003eread by its light, praised,\u003cbr\u003eand it burned.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTHE BOWL\u003cbr\u003eIf meat is put into the bowl, meat is eaten.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIf rice is put into the bowl, it may be cooked.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIf a shoe is put into the bowl,\u003cbr\u003ethe leather is chewed and chewed over,\u003cbr\u003ea sentence that cannot be taken in or forgotten.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA day, if a day could feel, must feel like a bowl.\u003cbr\u003eWars, loves, trucks, betrayals, kindness,\u003cbr\u003eit eats them.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThen the next day comes, spotless and hungry.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe bowl cannot be thrown away.\u003cbr\u003eIt cannot be broken.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt is calm, uneclipsable, rindless,\u003cbr\u003eand, big though it seems, fits exactly in two human hands.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHands with ten fingers,\u003cbr\u003efifty-four bones,\u003cbr\u003ecapacities strange to us almost past measure.\u003cbr\u003eScented—as the curve of the bowl is—\u003cbr\u003ewith cardamom, star anise, long pepper, cinnamon, hyssop.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI WANTED TO BE SURPRISED.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTo such a request, the world is obliging.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn just the past week, a rotund porcupine,\u003cbr\u003ewho seemed equally startled by me.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe man who swallowed a tiny microphone\u003cbr\u003eto record the sounds of his body,\u003cbr\u003enot considering beforehand how he might remove it.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cup\u003cbr\u003esurprised even them.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.\u003cbr\u003eOr why each time a new fossil, Earth-like planet, or war.\u003cbr\u003eOr that no one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat should not have been so surprising:\u003cbr\u003emy error after error, recognized when appearing on the faces of\u003cbr\u003eothers.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat did not surprise enough:\u003cbr\u003emy daily expectation that anything would continue,\u003cbr\u003eand then that so much did continue, when so much did not.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSmall rivulets still flowing downhill when it wasn’t raining.\u003cbr\u003eA sister’s birthday.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAlso, the stubborn, courteous persistence.\u003cbr\u003eThat even today \u003ci\u003eplease\u003c\/i\u003e means \u003ci\u003eplease\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003egood morning\u003c\/i\u003e is still understood as \u003ci\u003egood morning\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003cbr\u003eand that when I wake up,\u003cbr\u003ethe window’s distant mountain remains a mountain,\u003cbr\u003ethe borrowed city around me is still a city, and standing.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIts alleys and markets, offices of dentists,\u003cbr\u003edrug store, liquor store, Chevron.\u003cbr\u003eIts library that charges—a happy surprise—no fine for overdue books:\u003cbr\u003eBorges, Baldwin, Szymborska, Morrison, Cavafy.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eVEST\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI put on again the vest of many pockets.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt is easy to forget\u003cbr\u003ewhich holds the reading glasses,\u003cbr\u003ewhich the small pen,\u003cbr\u003ewhich the house keys,\u003cbr\u003ethe compass and whistle, the passport.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTo forget at last for weeks\u003cbr\u003eeven the pocket holding the day\u003cbr\u003eof digging a place for my sister’s ashes,\u003cbr\u003ethe one holding the day\u003cbr\u003ewhere someone will soon enough put my own.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTo misplace the pocket\u003cbr\u003eof touching the walls at Auschwitz\u003cbr\u003ewould seem impossible.\u003cbr\u003eIt is not.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTo misplace, for a decade,\u003cbr\u003ethe pocket of tears.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI rummage and rummage—\u003cbr\u003etransfers\u003cbr\u003efor Munich, for Melbourne,\u003cbr\u003eto Oslo.\u003cbr\u003eA receipt for a Singapore \u003ci\u003ekopi\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003eA device holding music:\u003cbr\u003eBach, Garcia, Richter, Porter, Pärt.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA woman long dead now\u003cbr\u003egave me, when I told her I could not sing,\u003cbr\u003ea kazoo.\u003cbr\u003eNow in a pocket.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSomewhere, a pocket\u003cbr\u003eholding a Steinway.\u003cbr\u003eSomewhere, a pocket\u003cbr\u003eholding a packet of salt.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBorgesian vest,\u003cbr\u003eOxford English Dictionary vest\u003cbr\u003ewith a magnifying glass\u003cbr\u003etucked inside one snapped-closed pocket,\u003cbr\u003eWikipedia vest, Rosetta vest,\u003cbr\u003eEnigma vest of decoding,\u003cbr\u003ehow is it one person can carry\u003cbr\u003eyour weight for a lifetime,\u003cbr\u003eone person\u003cbr\u003eslip into your open arms for a lifetime?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWho was given the world,\u003cbr\u003eand hunted for tissues, for chapstick.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAN ARCHAEOLOGY\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSixty feet below the streets of Rome,\u003cbr\u003ethe streets of Rome.\u003cbr\u003eLike that, I heard your voice, my life.\u003cbr\u003eLike that I listened.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI listened\u003cbr\u003eas to neighbors who live\u003cbr\u003ebehind the back wall of a building.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou know the voices of them,\u003cbr\u003ethe arguments and re-knittings,\u003cbr\u003ethe scents of their cooking and absence.\u003cbr\u003eYou know their plosives, gutturals, fricatives, stops.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSay to any who walk here,\u003cbr\u003e“How are you?”\u003cbr\u003eAsk where some bar or café might be found.\u003cbr\u003eYou could talk together, and drink,\u003cbr\u003eand find your own neighbor.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut ask your life anything, ask it,\u003cbr\u003e“How did this happen? What have we come to?”\u003cbr\u003eIt turns its face, it hums as a fish-hiding sea does.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFECIT\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor a person in love, the air looks no different\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003efor a person in grief\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ein this my one lifetime,\u003cbr\u003ewhile reading, arguing, cherishing, washing, watching a video,\u003cbr\u003esleeping,\u003cbr\u003ethe numbers unseeably rise—\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e305 ppm, 317 ppm, 390, 400\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eshin of high granite ticks snow-less the compound fracture\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI who wrote this\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003elike the old painters\u003cbr\u003esign this:\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJH fecit.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDAY BEGINNING WITH SEEING THE INTERNATIONAL\u003cbr\u003eSPACE STATION AND A FULL MOON OVER THE\u003cbr\u003eGULT OF MEXICO AND ALL ITS INVISIBLE FISHES\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNone of this had to happen.\u003cbr\u003eNot Florida. Not the ibis’s beak. Not water.\u003cbr\u003eNot the horseshoe crab’s empty body and not the living starfish.\u003cbr\u003eEvolution might have turned left at the corner and gone down another\u003cbr\u003estreet entirely.\u003cbr\u003eThe asteroid might have missed.\u003cbr\u003eThe seams of limestone need not have been susceptible to sand and\u003cbr\u003emangroves.\u003cbr\u003eThe radio might have found a different music.\u003cbr\u003eThe hips of one man and the hips of another might have stood beside\u003cbr\u003eeach other on a bus in Aleppo and recognized themselves as long-lost\u003cbr\u003ebrothers.\u003cbr\u003eThe key could have broken off in the lock and the nail-can refused its\u003cbr\u003elid.\u003cbr\u003eI might have been the fish the brown pelican swallowed.\u003cbr\u003eYou might have been the way the moon kept not setting long after we\u003cbr\u003ethought it would,\u003cbr\u003elong after the sun was catching inside the low wave curls coming in\u003cbr\u003eat a certain angle. The light might not have been eaten again by its\u003cbr\u003emoving.\u003cbr\u003eIf the unbearable were not weightless we might yet buckle under the\u003cbr\u003egrief\u003cbr\u003eof what hasn’t changed yet. Across the world a man pulls a woman\u003cbr\u003efrom the water\u003cbr\u003efrom which the leapt-from overfilled boat has entirely vanished.\u003cbr\u003eFrom the water pulls one child, another. Both are living and both will\u003cbr\u003econtinue to live.\u003cbr\u003eThis did not have to happen. No part of this had to happen.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAS IF HEARING HEAVY FURNITURE MOVED ON THE\u003cbr\u003eFLOOR ABOVE US\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAs things grow rarer, they enter the ranges of counting.\u003cbr\u003eRemain this many Siberian tigers,\u003cbr\u003ethat many African elephants. Three hundred red-legged egrets.\u003cbr\u003eWe scrape from the world its tilt and meander of wonder\u003cbr\u003eas if eating the last burned onions and carrots from a cast-iron pan.\u003cbr\u003eClosing eyes to taste better the char of ordinary sweetness.","brand":"Knopf","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300940009701,"sku":"NP9781524711719","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524711719.jpg?v=1767731260","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/ledger-isbn-9781524711719","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}