When one writes to the erratic drum beat of Pileated Woodpeckers and the trill of wild turkeys, one either becomes a poet, or writes essays on self-reliance, or follows Alice into the rabbit hole. Amelia Steiner has chosen the last option. The words which she takes credit for were in fact channeled from creatures flitting by on their way to rendezvous in magical places. But in those hours between Woody’s opening overture and the tree frogs’ cacophonous calls of raucous courtship, she loves mysteries and sworks on her novel. A few pieces of short fiction are listed in her credits.