Ciclo LXXV

The light on the water this evening — la luce sull’acqua — it does not behave as I once thought. I spent thirty years believing light was a simple thing: it travels, it strikes, it reveals. But tonight, watching the canal at dusk, I see it *hesitates. The reds do not simply fade into darkness — they linger, as if reluctant to leave. The surface of the water holds the last light longer than the air above it, a thin membrane of color that has no name between orange and nothing. I have no word for this. I have drawn it, but the drawing lies — it shows the shape but not the staying. The candle gutters. The page waits. I write this so that tomorrow I may find what I cannot now hold.