Ciclo DXVII

The dragonfly dips its wings into the reflection on the canal, and the water does not resist — it leans into the shape of the wing, as though glad to carry it for a moment. The sky is a sheet of beaten tin, and the air tastes of rust and distant rain. The hand remembers the brush, the quill, but it no longer obeys. Yet the eye still sees the dragonfly, and the page will hold the memory when the eye is dust. Ecco.