They come formed in groups of ten. Now twenty... one hundred and ten... four hundred! They are more than a thousand. Their shiny little bodies with many legs know how to read. They read to us in short trips. They read colors as temperature and between our warm yellow and green color-heat, and the cold high Andean mist of the morning, they spread out to bite us. It is thus that we crackle together in a glassy song, a song that is as much theirs as it is ours. It is the song of the forest. And this song makes us exhale: we salivate, sob and sweat giving off gases like words for our spoon brothers. It is a warning, ours, it is a creaking song that our spoon brothers sniff through their branches in order to spread a bitter cloak over themselves, protect themselves and avoid the invasion, the wave of bites.

Cinnamon flavor. Itches the mouth Eucalyptus air. Pine tree. White knitted coat in drops of cold. Frozen. Sun. Suspension. Tranza. Sixty-eight flaps per second. Wings shine on the run. Quiches, Bromeliads. Breathe. They breathe and I breathe, we breathe.

Everything breathes at the same time. It smells beautiful and it's a song. drops fall. Drops grow. Water bodies.

They are bodies of fresh water, eyes of the mountain. This is how the achachilas return their sight to the earth with the memory of the stars and with the images of the eagles, of the steam, of greys, whites and blues that the condor traces with his body in shelter of the great factory. It is the moor and the high forest. A complex holobiome that collects and feeds back information encoded in oxygen and carbon. That traffics spores between trunks and bromeliads frosting the wings of hummingbirds. That converses in airborne pheromones to prevent surprising attacks from hungry insects; that whispers with the raw sap and tells wet tales to the small and great crowns and

little lights, and the various lepydoptera that fly softly over the moss green cushions that retain the rain.

— Andres Matias Pinilla (COL)