Time leads me to belonging’s grace. The drifting mountains, sifting hills, forests enclave, gravel pounds. Walking til’ my feat falls flat; I rest under trees why leaves camouflage me. Already west when my quest is back home… in a faint, beckoning assuage; reminiscent of Ma who always cared too much – with her undying love now a comforting memory – as footsteps in my soul on a path to soar. Black-eyed Susans and their friends break earth around me.. do they sing when they see the sun? A shout, a gasp, or a sigh for eternity? What do they believe? The strum of petals forgiving sin; steady growth like beard or wind; bark that bites, angels who romp, and heartbeat knock, tick-tock, of a flock. Do they or the birds above see me? Window’s fog is revealing fingerprinted faces, and a Portland, Maine man, David Lamb, has Rhode Islands across lakes of succumbing fate to find The Devil Dancing.