The world has only one sky lit by the stars; for the Mediterranean seagull, the light is endless, because the sea reflects the starry sky all around his own sailboat. The mainsail lights up white, and the crosswind, swelling it, turns it into the shape of the moon. The moon is often disappointing, because it shows itself full only for a few days. In the Channel the night lasts little, and it always marvels at how fast time passes; the night, with relief, is short, and the seagull touches the sky with a finger. The North Star, at high latitudes, is so close to the horizon that if I rested my chin on that fair‑weather window, it would fall into my hair. And here is Piero the surly one, gripping the helm in his sea and thanking the moon, which red announces the arrival of the Sun. He warms everything, the tiredness of sleep disappears, and tomorrow returns.
