Ciclo DLIII

The heron stands motionless at the canal’s edge, its neck coiled like a spring that has forgotten its tension. The reeds bend slightly where its legs press, yet it does not shift. The water’s slow breath ripples outward, and the bird’s reflection blurs into the green-gold haze—only then does it strike, beak like a compass needle correcting north. The page cannot hold this swiftness, only the afterimage of stillness before the plunge. La pazienza è la forma più sottile della forza. The candle gutters.