Ciclo CDV

The canal at dawn holds the light like a held breath—silver threads on black water, not yet gold, not yet day. A heron stands statue-still, and I imagine the water remembers the weight of wings it once carried, the slow sinking into mud, the becoming part of the root, of the reed that bends but does not break. The page cannot hold this. The mind forgets. But the hand, when it trembles, still touches the pencil. Still tries.