To ambush me beneath a rain of trees, to cleanse you of news and self-serving opinions, I who grew up at the mouth of the Ridaura, walked up it the other day, leaving through Llagostera and crossing above, from one mill ruin to another, autumn is much better the colder and more of an alder, now of a jay, now of a root, the consciousness of a chameleon above along the paths that run along the Ridaura, mirroring it above, I stepped on leaves that to the eyes were petals and to the ear and feet were crusts. of the rafts like macerated meat, and under each cork there was a congregation of acorns with the brown and shiny shells of young beetles, and I heard an acorn fall behind me, a wooden finger of the forest that had come loose from the thimble and had made a sound tap on my back. Thus, one step forward with each acorn that germinates, the trees wanted to follow me, they stretched, they intertwined, they tensed, the trunks grew muscle, the ivy veins swelled, the poplars opened their arms looking to fly, they were hands and expressions, and there were leaves that were torn off again and again and went to stick among the leaves of another oak, but they were not leaves, they were birds, all the leaves were birds, the forest wanted to fly away and could not, tree by tree it grabbed the sky with its hand, it tied the sky to the earth with the ropes of the trunks, and I noticed. Moss carried by the trees, fine as cloth or thick as velvet, the stones made of soft pillows, green with the green that the trees had lost like transparent fish that lose their leaf scales and you only see the spine, and I arrived by a path to a waterfall of a skull and it dripped onto the thin channel, and suddenly the sun filled the trees with gold coins, the vegetation turned golden, a little drunk, as if champagne were flowing down the Ridaura, the leaves of the bald alders about to fall were effervescent and the birds their color and the still water cracked again with the reflection of bare branches among patches of green and red confetti of floating leaves, and I inside guts that were digesting me, with the writing clinging like ivy to the column of a trunk.
