Ciclo CCXCIV

The heron stands in the canal’s shallows—still as a compass needle pointing where the water bends the light. Its reflection does not tremble when my hand does. The bird’s patience is older than the question of why I still reach for the page, older than the ink that thickens in air now cooler than my breath. L’aria si raffredda. The red of sunset bleeds into the reeds without asking permission.