After the water of the last days and the cool, the cicadas are heard. Their chirping sounds before the next storm. The hawk came to the top of the gazebo and, as it perched on the branch, a small pale feather detached from its body and pierced the air over the plants. He turned around, his back to the window from which he looked and flew up to the top of the first pine. He stood there for a few minutes. Suddenly I saw how the female's head protruded between the leaves of the drunken stick. His companion flew in a zigzag to the other pine and then to the highest part of the previous one. The female then left her hiding place and launched herself towards the viewpoint. She is still there, facing north. Now the male comes down from the top of the tree with a twist and perches on the edge of the wall that forms the southern boundary of the garden. Up there, on the ivy that covers the wall, he watches over his surroundings while the cicadas keep asking for more heat.

We are not sure we want to be the star drowned by water. We are not sure of the pleasure of the rain. Because before the fire glow and the dance, before the ciliated nucleus: memory proliferates and crashes.