THIRTEEN

Thirteen trees make up a small island forest in the Tierra de Campos, within the Natural Park of the Villafáfila Lagoons. I visit every year—I can’t even remember the first time—at dawn and dusk, always captivated by the cushion-like shape of their crowns, defying the whispering wind. In the middle of nowhere, where the horizon stretches endlessly in every direction, this little pine grove shelters the castaways of the steppe.

Under the dark sky, I set up my gear, coat my fingers with vaseline, and compose, accompanied only by the cold wind. Their voices are the only sounds I hear until well after sunrise, when tractors break the silence of the infinite plain.

The only discordant note is a small almond tree, the remains of an old dovecote, and another nearby island forest. But I never visit that one. Maybe I’ll have time in another life.