Do you know what it’s like to be hungry late at night in the dark? Eyeballs peeled open at the sound of your stomach rumbling like a thundersheet? Like the palpitations of Eric Whitacre’s Cloudburst? The feeling of that rumble is like drilling through a pond; It ripples beyond the stomach so that you feel the tingle in your hands and chest. All encompassing compass, pointing North to your hunger. In past lifetimes, I have dipped my hand into wicker baskets of grain, cupped the spheres of wheat and barley, raised that promise of Lady Liberty herself, and watched those little hardened pieces fall one by one back into the basket. And in this moment I am a hourglass, Time herself. The pieces of hardened grain that trickle out of my raised palm each make a sound, making contact with their brothers and sisters, safe at home in their basket. This grain was harvested by my ancestors, cooked by my ancestors, fed.