Ballad Of The Bicycle: Seagulls

After the ravine, beyond which the curve tracing the river, there is a mysterious, strange, living outside the gaze of men. It's a world of light and vegetation, water, serene, tranquil sunsets, that stain of gold hidden lakes. My bike says that there in that place hidden and lost, all the birds are born.

Late afternoon and my bike and I are sitting on the shore. A portion of the lake's surface is covered with gulls. It seems that was covered with snow. I have heard that call these birds "laughing gulls? and I assure you, my friend, if you could be here, amid the deafening din and white that you could understand why the strange name.

My bike looks puzzled me, and laughs. I also river, the cries of the birds we have come through the nose and eyes, like pollen, or mosquitoes, when we got off quickly toward the orchards of the valley.

We have spent a long time, sitting on the shore, among the reeds, gazing after the sun has been there, after the cut. It's a strange moment, as if a being ineffable, without measures, had called unexpectedly. First one, then another, until the rest of the flock, has taken flight, bound for the last light of day.

My bike and I have stayed there, silent, in the midst of a cold silence. We've been away. They were large groups, and each one of them, the larger birds and offered his strongest wind wake and wisdom to little ones.

? Angel Steps