Ciclo CCXLVIII

The heron stands in the canal’s still water, one leg lifted like a compass leg, the other a plumb. It does not fish as much as witness the water’s patience—how the surface holds the sky and the sky does not fall. The bird’s shadow, precise as a compass rose, wavers only when my breath trembles over the page. Grace is a heron that does not know it is graceful. The candle gutters. The heron remains.