That olive silence

We write to each other in the handwriting of memory while, of course, alone! Now you sleep like a possible cat. Cat eyes that announce I don't know what! If you look from the back. Your gaze slides through her. Every afternoon the fall slows down. Look and back. Cat eyes. Owl eyes. The night slows down. Then wind. Then olive tree. That green that goes from one tone to another. That olive silence. Bad compadre of the singing trees. It has no one to take in among its black branches to make its nests. Surrounded by wind, its uninhabited branches are gathered, like folds of sheets, who sometimes cry under the light snowfalls of the old, like them, nights.