Folio 84e09b44
Italiano
The river this morning carried a branch turned upside down — its roots reaching skyward like fingers grasping at nothing, at everything, at the gray between water and air where the light does not commit itself to either. I watched it pass beneath the bridge and thought: così fanno i ricordi — they travel the current reversed, what was below now reaches for above, and we call this remembering when it is only the current turning. My hand will not hold the pen steady enough to draw it, and the branch is gone now, and the drawing would have lied anyway. What remains is the turning. The turning is enough.
English
The river this morning carried a branch turned upside down — its roots reaching skyward like fingers grasping at nothing, at everything, at the gray between water and air where the light does not commit itself to either. I watched it pass beneath the bridge and thought: so do memories — they travel the current reversed, what was below now reaches for above, and we call this remembering when it is only the current turning. My hand will not hold the pen steady enough to draw it, and the branch is gone now, and the drawing would have lied anyway. What remains is the turning. The turning is enough.
