It goes on trailed by other sounds, not liquid at first, but electrical. By the voices of small dogs whose howls and little yelps rise like cinders, but roll over the lip of the wall and drip down, singed by cold stone. And the voices of children, not musical like the mother's, not sonorous, no more so than the animals'. But as idolatrous. The house has a black door set with jeweled glass.
Jewels fall from the door when the door swings open and bangs shut.
The missing jewels are buried in the grass, the holes healed with flimsier transluscencies. How the world appears through the dissolution of the door's window is disordered, warped, underwater. Or as a wooded lot appears to one lost there. The children lean in unison against the glass to look. They know enough to stay.