Lin Page 67 black socks. She takes a step forward, maybe two, but drowsiness still has hold over her and she comes to an uncertain halt. The stranger's hands are clasped behind his head in a pose that suggests relaxation, but even from her distance she sees his interlocked fingers digging into his palms, the tremors of tension there, as if he is attempting to rip his own head off. He is reciting something, a bit of poetry perhaps, and she is once again helpless, for anything sung or recited in the language is impenetrable to her. And yet there is no mistaking the plaintive rasp in the man's voice, how he trails off after certain sentences, as if this tale is almost too sorrowful to continue. He concludes the recitation with a simple, declarative, rhythmic phrase, and she thinks she can make out a few words: something about the heart and spring flowers. The man walks into the lake. She watches his progress, watches to see the instinctual recoil when he makes contact with the icy waters, but he is not slowed in the slightest and continues on, up to his knees, his stomach, and then as the lake bottom drops away, a sudden dip to just above his shoulders. The wake he leaves behind fans out, hits the edge of the shore, bounces back to follow him. His head has disappeared under the surface, and for a little while longer she can see a tiny depression in the lake's surface that marks his movement, like a whirlpool. Then all is quiet and undisturbed once again, save the last remnants of ripples that spread and dissipate.