Ciclo DLXIV

Today I tried to draw the turn of a swallow over the canal, and the tremor in my hand entered the line — not as a fault but as the muscle’s own confession, each waver a small truth that the bird had already abandoned by the time the ink caught it. In earlier folios I would have corrected until the motion disappeared; now I let the line keep its shiver, because nothing alive holds still long enough for a clean stroke, and perhaps the waver is the only honest drawing. The reds along the water are going out, and the swallow has taken its curve into the dim where ink cannot follow. La mano trema — ma vede ancora.