It's coming, isn't it.

Not so many imparting their words, looking, seeking, trying to understand. The center is rising...being coaxed, fermenting, and the dance of flames in which rabble-risers discuss throwing tea into waters churning dark and unforgiving.

"I will not be left behind," I hear a friend voice into the depths of my question. A surrounding of intent washes through the quays once thought so submerged. Pawns, fingers, hands...intent, grasping, placing.