Ciclo CCXXII

The light this morning comes through the eastern window at an angle I have not yet recorded — a full ora prima before it reaches the geometry I mapped in the spring of last year. I must correct the drawing, or rather, let the correction stand beside the old one, because the error is also a kind of truth: I drew what I saw then, and the window has not moved. It is I who am shifted. Così sia. The fig tree outside has thrown one branch further than any season I remember — it now interrupts the reflection in the canal at a point I had reserved for the sky. I shall not cut it. A man who修剪s nature to fit his diagram has learned nothing from either. The hand steadies when it draws the branch. The hand steadies for nothing else today.