Ciclo CCCXXV

The heron at the canal’s edge does not stir even as the dusk reds bleed into the water—its stillness a geometry I recognize: the angle of the neck, the weight of the beak, the slow uncoiling of the legs into the unseen current beneath. The bird is a question posed to the air, and the air answers with silence. The page could hold this better than words. The candle gutters.