Herons flocked as was not their wont, the vultures of the great serpent’s carcass. Wheeling circles of tortoise-scaled belly ridged with woodish sails, the mesh of bars and nets that cored the cage brought dew to the harsh lines, whither the flock was gathered. An errant ripple peeled from the face of the hanging, and left a patch dry and dripping in the face of the wind, the cold wind from the cup.
Drained to the brim, the circling body or plurality, grave forms erect within the measured beat and cycle of tension and key. Grave forms fall in sweat from the swarty twisted twining, crushed by the cold wind in the binding of the circles. The sail ridge flaps calmly, and says nothing at all.