Folio 09676f58
Italiano
The heron stands motionless at the canal's edge, its reflection a second bird turned to silver by the slow water. The air smells of wet earth and iron—rain coming or gone, I cannot say. Its stillness is not patience; it is geometry. The neck is a compass needle pointing where the fish hide. The world arranges itself around such angles. The hand trembles but does not write. The page waits.
English
The heron stands motionless at the canal's edge, its reflection a second bird turned to silver by the slow water. The air smells of wet earth and iron—rain coming or gone, I cannot say. Its stillness is not patience; it is geometry. The neck is a compass needle pointing where the fish hide. The world arranges itself around such angles. The hand trembles but does not write. The page waits.
