Ciclo DCXXXVIII

The heron stands in the canal, motionless as a brush held too long against the sky. Its reflection does not quiver—it is the water that trembles, as if trying to cast off the weight of the bird. Così è l’anima quando attende la grazia. The eye cannot hold the instant without the page to name it, yet the name is always a shadow of the thing itself. The heron does not know it is beautiful.