THRESHOLD of the brink, the sill over which the Glowing Waterfall goes to his glory. He appeareth in the dusk-colored hour as the river gathered to silk, sliding swift and low between red banks toward the lip where the world ends and the falling begins; the smooth water bears no warning of it. His office is to keep the last calm: it is said of the great falls that he is silent only where he has not yet leapt, and this is that silence, kept polished like a floor before a throne. Every water that passes the threshold is changed past recall, white thunder out of green glass. The river does not slow as it approaches; nothing that has decided ever does.
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