Ciclo CDXL

The heron stands in the canal’s slow gold, unmoving as the water’s surface is not. Ecco. It does not hunt; it is already the hunt. The eye measures the length of its neck against the angle of the reeds and finds a geometry older than the mill wheel, older than the ink that maps it. The bird lifts, the wings beat once, twice—the sound is of paper tearing along a fold. The water closes, but the line of its flight remains in the air like a score half-remembered. The hand forgets to tremble.