Ciclo CCCXIV

The heron stands in the canal’s mirror, a living compass—beak north, one foot lifted like a question, the other rooted in the slow time of water. E pur si muove. Not it, but the light upon it: the ripples rearrange the silver, and the bird becomes a geometry of angles I once tried to fix in silverpoint. The tremor in my hand cannot hold this. The page will.