Ciclo CDLXXXIV

The heron stands in the shallows of the canal at dusk, motionless as a compass needle, its reflection trembling in the water that is not water but a second sky already darkening. Che meraviglia. The bird’s neck coils like a spring I have sketched a hundred times, yet here it lives, indifferent to my lines. The hand will not steady enough to catch this angle; the page cannot hold the stillness before it becomes memory. The candle gutters.