Ballad Of The Bicycle Gulls

Past the ravine, beyond where draw the curve the River, there is a mysterious, strange, world that lives oblivious to the looks of the men. It is a world of light and vegetation, water, calm and serene sunsets, which stained Dorado hidden lakes. My bike says that all the birds are born there, in that place hidden and lost. It falls the afternoon and my bike and I are sitting on the shore. A part of the surface of the Lake is covered with gulls.

It seems to be snow-covered. I have heard say who call these reidoras seagulls birds and I assure you, friend mine, if you could be here, in the midst of this hubbub thunderous and white, you could understand why that strange name. My bike looks at me perplexed, and laughs. I also laugh; the cries of these birds we have entered by the nose and eyes, such as pollen, or mosquitoes, when we went down quickly towards the orchards of la vega. We have spent much time, sitting on the shore, between the reeds, contemplating them, then it has been the Sun beyond, after the cut.

It is a strange time, as if a be ineffable, without measures, would have called them suddenly. First one, then another, until the rest of the flock, has lifted the flight, heading to the last glow of the day. My bike and I have stayed there, silent, in the midst of a cold silence. We have seen them stay away. They formed large groups, and in each of them, the largest and strongest birds offered its wake wind and wisdom to small.

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