“Ah, look. The first star”. Low and suspended two centimetres between the fingers of a mountain. We cannot name it, dozens of minutes flow by, the river and the words. Darkness falls, the friends light up, together they form a y. Eternally alone, they unite with the invisible strings we have in our heads. Trois plui grants, plui sore dai nestris, of those who travel the migrants, the menaus, “the ones facing the dangers of an unkind place: the forest”.

I wonder what those who look at us would see if we were stars.

“Maybe I am a lizard”, I think with my eyes closed, as the sun beats down on my skin.

“But lizards don't speak English. To be honest, neither do I.” Meanwhile, I imagine a tail instead of legs - now that I'm no longer wearing my boots, the heat has stuck my feet to the grass. “What do you know? That's a stupid assumption.” I turn green and my neck stretches.

“But I can't help it!” “Yes, you can. Why can't you just accept being yourself?”

“Okay, but... I'm here. I mean, it's different in the city and in the valley. Here, apart from walking and eating, I don't do a damn thing. And I'm constantly next to something else, as if we were sharing a house. How can you not seek a position?”

There are certain spirits who guard the border. Whether they do so out of duty or free will is, of course, impossible to know. Nor do they appear in the same form to those who travel through the places where they dwell. Many report encountering a group of horses. Their coats are mostly dark, one of them is black with a grey tail, others are completely black, and still others change colour. They do not approach, but they allow themselves to be approached, and every day they appear for the first time to those who look up. According to witnesses, they watch over humans during the day, accompanying them, and vanish at night, only to reappear the following morning. Some, however, report seeing them transform into birds of prey – ravens, kestrels, buzzards – or into smaller, gregarious birds or, near water basins, into small newts.

Like every day, they proceed with their hands, their boots and a knowledge that will disappear in the future.

Yesterday, the rain gave them no respite, swelling the Rio Bianco and causing rocks to roll down the slope. Today is the same. Perhaps they should wait until the next day, especially to avoid slipping on the rocks, but this is not a life based on “maybes” or possibilities.

While the others finish eating polenta and cheese, Franz grabs his sapin [a hooked stick used to hook logs and move them], says goodbye and heads down to the valley to wait for the logs carried down by the current. His brother Peter gets up shortly afterwards and approaches that monument of fir, larch, moss and stones. He glances quickly above him to assess the water level: the dam is full. He adjusts the scarf around his neck as he looks down, but Franz is well hidden, too far behind the woods. Now he has something more than his craft in his hands. Clearly, he is not thinking about any of this; he is surely thinking about something else, but we do not know what. He positions himself above the mouth of the dam. He drops the beam and opens the door.An explosion.

There is a cow in the middle of the woods. She lays down on the grass, gazing at the world, near her dead daughter.

If you look at her, she doesn’t cry. I keep on questioning my mates ‘And now, what will she do?’ but nobody can answer me.

No moaning. No movements. She doesn’t tear her hair out. And so we walk past.

After a long journey, she’s always there. Bassa e sospesa a due centimetri compresi tra le dita sore di une mont. Radio folk, look at the first star.