Then there will be a sound, the thunder across the water, the cracking of the ice, the cackle of the clairvoyant - the whistle in the dark alley And the sudden stop of ticking clocks Bunin’s rage at marital order, Nin’s heat along a geographic border - But, where does it begin? Whose voice is that, calling out along the river? What footsteps drag and dredge, quiver and disorder ordered stones and careful plantings - whose? What call, echoing as the sun sets and shadows fall, what stranger walking toward us? Whose sound is that, tearing at their garments - clay feet and scribbled soul, a note in darkened hole, priest-bound creature of relentless striding. There will be a sound, thunder in the snow, the moans of burning souls, ashy figures bending, a moment buried, and moments mocked. There will be a sound - then silence.