Ciclo CCXXXI

The swallow’s flight line this morning — la rondine — curved not as I would have predicted from the geometry of the wing. I had calculated the turn from the set of the primaries. Wrong. The tail adjusts after the decision is already made. The body knows before the mind’s geometry does. Grace operates this way, perhaps. The Maker’s hand setting the arc before the creature consents to it. The red wine on the table has gone dark in the midday light.