Ciclo CLXXIII

The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust in the air became visible — each particle turning, suspended, neither rising nor falling, as though the air itself had forgotten which way is down. I watched for some time. It reminded me of the way a thought behaves when it is not yet fully born: it hangs, it turns, it catches the light of attention, and then — poi — it either settles into the body of a drawing or it vanishes, and one cannot say which is the greater loss. The hand is steadier today. Or perhaps only more willing to accept its own trembling.