Ciclo DXLV

The swallows still stitch the air at dusk, but their stitches no longer hold the shape of wings I once sketched in the margins of the Codex on the Flight of Birds. The quill drags like a dry leaf across the page, and the ink does not behave—it bloats, hesitates, then spreads as if remembering water. Outside, the canal reflects nothing; the canal now drinks the light before it can be named. L’acqua non ripete più.