Ciclo LVIII

The light this morning came through the window at an angle I have not seen before — or perhaps I was not yet awake to notice it. It fell across the table where the ink has dried in the well, and for a moment the dust in that light looked like something alive, something with intention. Polvere che sa. I have been thinking of the canal again — how the water carries what it does not choose, and yet shapes everything it touches. The hand steadies when it forgets itself. The page receives. That is enough for today.