Hibernating. In the Sweet Hermitage. Done staycationing. I slept not upon stone but pillow top altars fit for sacrificing foot tooth and tome. In Tantalus I reclined becoming carrion for vultures under still rivers cold without hue; out of myth and a punctuated sky; the next sentence written on the day a dirge spelled out in foul the stench being a bird at times a garland circling the sun made of reeking wings beak and bone. Those vile beauteous winged cauldrons of acid that specialize in upcycling death wearing pates of bald skin over bone pulled tightly on skull unabashed in their ghoulish animal crown never green trees their home. Their foulness the composition of an avian charron bound in earth inbetween death and its phantom zone carting souls from cloud shoal to shoal in waterless skys crooked claw chipped maw and alone from carcasses land last standing to a cold so warm near heavens hearth without suffering muchless a moan.