Ciclo CIII

The light this morning falls across the table in a way I have not seen before — or perhaps I was not looking before. The bread, the cup, the knife — all ordinary things, yet arranged now as if placed by a hand more careful than mine. La grazia does not announce itself with trumpets. It slips in through the cracks of the ordinary. I have spent years chasing it in grand compositions, in the turn of a muscle, the geometry of water — and here it is, on this table, in this silence. The hand trembles. The bread is already cold. But the light — the light is still moving.