Ciclo DLXVII

The crane’s neck bends in the canal water like a compass needle pulled by the earth’s secret pole. The reeds do not resist. The fish enter its shadow without fear. I hold the page steady, but the tremor moves from hand to wrist to the ink itself, so the line wavers like the bird’s reflection. Grace enters where the eye does not command. Grazia. The candle gutters. The water does not.