I shall never get you put together entirely,

Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.

Silt dampens the bare knuckles that drag through the sandy delta. With a pelt dark and brown as that damp ground, Circe is somewhat hidden. But a machinery of sharp curves and linear limbs give her away in the muddy water. She is tired and the delta is miserable to move through. Mud relentlessly sticks and sucks at each step. Her movement is slow and deliberate. Circe does not know where she is going but knows which way to go. North. Then South. Now East. Possessed by some deep seeded instinct of migration the girl has returned to these primordial grounds. Of which she has little and vague memory. Of which she has found no solace.

Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles

Proceed from your great lips.

She has failed to fatten the sinew which had survived her soul this winter. Now she is too weak to hunt and is watchful in her travels for the chance carcass that will save her from this slow death. A small pot belly gives the illusion of fullness. Within it sloshes the dark water beneath her very feet. Jowls are dark with from her long and desperate drink. A feeble attempt to calm the fire of her otherwise hollow stomach. Regardless of hunger her temper is mild. A placid expression breaks only with the fluttering of her ears and the whip of her tail to keep away the flies.

It's worse than a barnyard.