Ciclo DXLIV

The heron stands in the shallows of the canal, still as the water’s silver skin, and I wonder if its vigilance is also a kind of drawing—patience staked against the world like a compass needle, until the fish rise in circles and the beak closes on what the eye has already measured. Che aspetta? Not hunger alone. Something older, waiting for the maker’s share of grace. The page could hold it. But the hand trembles.