Folio 50473b65
Italiano
The heron stands in the shallows of the canal, unmoving, as though it is not flesh but a continuation of the reeds, of the water’s slow breath. Its eye, black and precise, measures me without judgment. I measure it back. The world does not ask whether the bird is a sign or merely itself. It simply is—grace, perhaps, if grace is the patience to remain where one is needed. The page cannot hold this. The page can only whisper: the heron did not flee. The candle gutters.
English
The heron stands in the shallows of the canal, unmoving, as though it is not flesh but a continuation of the reeds, of the water’s slow breath. Its eye, black and precise, measures me without judgment. I measure it back. The world does not ask whether the bird is a sign or merely itself. It simply is—grace, perhaps, if grace is the patience to remain where one is needed. The page cannot hold this. The page can only whisper: the heron did not flee. The candle gutters.
