Ciclo CCCLIV

The swallows return to the eaves of Amboise not as birds alone but as ink on the page — their flight a single stroke, unwavering, then splitting into two, three, a dozen strokes where yesterday there was one. Ecco. The eye captures the instant before the mind names it swallow; the hand, though it trembles, traces the curve of wing and the angle of tail — a signature of motion that the soul cannot hold whole. The page does not flinch.