Groana & the genetic clock of the birds

In a morning like any other in a dimensionally parallel Gijón, Groana excavates her cavities:
on the sill of the window the fowls screech blind

the eyes of their talons are blind, too, crooked like nails of witch: they only see with the eyes of their wings.


Groana communicates with them, and catalogues their species unconsciously
the electricity of her armpit indexes the data in the cellphone

the winged beasts are tabulated in seven hormonal categories:


birds of cielo

birds of amiantus

birds of painted wood

birds of excrement

birds of milk

birds of wool

birds of fruit



because when the Atlentic brings stationary latencies for summer, the Groana's thyroidal rhythm decodes the murmuration of the starlings.





After the rainy night of Capharnaum, Groana parades her calves through tubular streets

heavy is the world and she weighs it


from prismatic nests built in gelatine and saliva, the birds sleep yet horrid nightmares.