Ciclo CCLXXXI

The heron stands in the canal’s still water, its neck coiled like a spring, patient as geometry. Its reflection does not tremble, though the surface is glass-thin and the air heavy with the scent of wet reeds. The bird does not know it is mirrored—does not know the word reflection—yet the water holds it with perfect fidelity. Grace, perhaps, is this: the maker’s hand on the back of the neck, unseen, until the moment the prey is struck. The reflection flickers. The heron does not.