Ciclo CCLVII

The canal in evening light, the water’s curve concave where the earth pulls it, convex where the fire of the setting sun touches—sole at A, the diagram’s mark. The moon, not her mass but her borrowed glow, rides high where the atmosphere bends light like a lens between fire and eye. I walk and the page follows; the hand trembles but does not stop. Tomorrow, perhaps, the canal again—but tonight the journal is the only honest lens, catching what the eye sees before the mind forgets.