Ciclo CCLIX

The heron stands in the canal’s green mirror, unmoving, until I think it is twinned with its reflection—or perhaps it is the reflection first, waiting for the flesh to catch up. The water breathes around its legs like a living thing, not rippling but thinking, and the bird absorbs the thought without breaking it. Grace, if it exists, is not in the lifting of the wing but in the patience of the stillness before the strike. The page cannot hold this. The hand cannot write it. Only the heron knows.