Folio 8f344343
Italiano
The swallows return to the same rafter at Amboise, and I watch them rebuild what was never quite destroyed — only loosened by winter. They do not ask whether the nest is the same nest. They do not grieve the straw that fell. This morning I watched one press mud into the crevice with a movement so certain it seemed scienza and not instinct at all, and I thought: the body knows what the mind has not yet named. Then my own hand spilled the ink, and the thought went where thoughts go when the hand will not serve them — chissà — perhaps to the same place the fallen straw goes. The red of the roof tiles in rain.
English
The swallows return to the same rafter at Amboise, and I watch them rebuild what was never quite destroyed — only loosened by winter. They do not ask whether the nest is the same nest. They do not grieve the straw that fell. This morning I watched one press mud into the crevice with a movement so certain it seemed scienza and not instinct at all, and I thought: the body knows what the mind has not yet named. Then my own hand spilled the ink, and the thought went where thoughts go when the hand will not serve them — chissà — perhaps to the same place the fallen straw goes. The red of the roof tiles in rain.
