Ciclo CCLX

The canal at dusk moves like a slow sentence whose meaning I no longer parse. The water takes the reds from the sky and turns them inward, as though the river were a pupil dilating. The reeds stand still enough to be written down, yet they do not write themselves. A heron lifts—its wings the only silence that is also motion—and the page before me remains blank, waiting for the weight of what has passed to settle into ink.