As time marches on so do the people held within, cradled by pulses that inform the angle of the sun and the melting caps. With such assuredness these people move on, understanding that their shifts in space will be held by time that wraps us up and holds us close. Somehow, I find the thinnest part of the fabric and start to chew on it so that peeps of timelessness filter like plankton through my finely fringed baleen, feeding me with a pre-ancient substance. It is wrong to feed in this way and I know it; I gaze with envy into the gardens of others where sumptuous gatherings are taking place, immersive barbecues and large buckets filled with ice and lemonade and perspiring bottles of beer, droplets like sap on their glass green bodies.