Ciclo DLXIII

The heron stands like a question in the shallows of the canal, its neck folded into a cipher of patience—così—while the water, slow and deliberate, writes its own line across the reeds. The bird does not ask why the current curves, nor why the light bends where the reeds part. It simply is, and the reflection trembles with it. The hand that trembles now holds the pen, but the heron holds something older. The page will remember neither.