It's more likely to find illumination through Satan than through moderation

Maria Luisa has come to the park to feed black-crowned night-herons every evening for the last 23 years. She says that they arrive in Tenochtitlan on their way to the sea, hungry and weary, only to discover that the place they once knew no longer exists. The lake upon which the grand Aztec civilization was built has dried up, and its biodiversity has been obliterated. Maria Luisa is their last hope. She buys 250 kg of chicken every day. While we talk, Maria Luisa’s driver silently scatters chicken heads and limbs across the grass, his hand moving gracefully through the air. The birds, familiar with the ritual, wait patiently in the trees — from afar they look like seagulls with very poor posture. “They are so shy, anything can scare them. God forbid someone passes by with a dog now. It could ruin their dinner,” Maria Luisa comments, her voice quivering slightly. Once the plastic bucket is empty, the driver returns to the jeep and begins honking the horn, mimicking the calls of the black-crowned night-herons. The sound blends with Maria Luisa's whistling, reminiscent of a warning siren, filling the air with a palpable tension that enhances the eeriness of the night.

S. says that The Devil and Temperance are the same card and that we are more likely to find illumination through Satan than through moderation. Today, at the park, it's rained five or ten times with the sun out, and the mown grass has started smelling like a wet dog. I’ve noticed that some of my most enlightened friends always praise the rain because it means L I F E. 'I'll praise the rain too,' I decide, and I lie on the pile of dead grass with my legs spread as if I wanted to be impregnated by the water from the sky. I stick my hand into the thick straw mattress underneath me and feel the cozy warmth produced by the decomposition process. El calorcito rico de descomposición.  

As we wait for the birds to descend from the trees for dinner, Maria Luisa shows me photographs of the black-crowned night-herons she feeds in another park. “There are 130 or 140 of them, all hungry, poor things. Such smart creatures, but tremendously shy. They don't even leave the city anymore.” In the blurry pictures I see, at most, 30-40 birds, their distinctive humpbacked silhouettes barely discernible in the dusk. 'No, no, no!' Maria Luisa interrupts herself and begins to gesticulate dramatically at a man jogging by. 'Find another route! The birds! The birds!' Her face contorts into a sudden grimace, compassion turning into rage. The man ignores her. For a couple of minutes, we stand in silence — as if mourning the indifference of everyone to the fate of the black-crowned night-herons. The abandoned chicken parts gleam fluorescent in the dark grass.

The first bird drops to the ground like a ripe fruit. It doesn't linger there for long, quickly returning to the tree with a chicken limb in its beak. Other herons follow suit in a similarly graceless manner, maintaining a solemn silence. Maria Luisa is excited; she clasps her hands as if in prayer, bringing them to her face and covering her nose and lips with the triangle of her palms to hide her astonishment. Her eyeballs look artificially white. She transmits this enthusiasm to me: the scene of birds feasting upon birds takes my breath away. The grand vision of Tenochtitlan is reborn: it's no longer an eagle perched on a cactus, clutching a snake in its talon; it's black-crowned night-herons dining on chicken heads in a nocturnal park. This is where the new spiritual empire shall emerge. Neither the devil nor temperance; it is Maria Luisa who will illuminate the way for us. “Please, write about the insects!” she asks me when she finds out that I write. “We have to bring awareness to the omnicide unfolding before us.”  While she speaks, her gaze remains steadfastly fixed on the herons. Perhaps it is the herons who speak to me through Maria Luisa. I assure her I will. 

As we walk away, the air becomes illuminated by sudden bursts of light. I didn't know that only male fireflies emit a bioluminescent glow to attract partners. Once mating is complete, they are killed by the female fireflies, and the light vanishes into darkness.