Rogue set still, draped in a cloak in the dead of a cold winter’s night. Hiding out. Even when he is in plain sight, he is hiding out. A woman silhouetted in a darkened kitchen turns and in the moonlight we can see her side profile, dimly. She is lost in Time, some 18th or 19th century wonder. Ghost immortal. Rogue ready to rob, ready to fight as soon as a spark snaps awake. Lighter fluid and firecrackers are nothing but fodder. Rebel, farmer going against the grain. Drummer, marching to the beat of his own. Hidden in plain view, they and we are everywhere. Daunting, haunting task force of self-importantizing ruffians. Sides are all about perspective. Climbing out onto branches and balconies and cliffs, I am stretched outward reaching, grasping for truth. Willing my shoulder to pop out, my forearm to grow and stretch further. Reaching the moon. Fingertips touch thin, rough bark. Wolf howls.