He gave you a torrent of words you did not understand and asked “¿De dónde es usted? “Washington” you said.  When the machete hit sharply against the first willow branch, the old man had taken over, carefully saying “Washington”, “Washington” with each aimed whack. It was all over for the willow limbs stroking silver wires into the wind, weeping scents of mandarinas, black walnut, sweet jasmine and bamboo gone wild.  When the willow tree was finally stripped, a 3-inch black moth, wings spread, lit into your house.  He moved inch by inch along the wall, like a magician’s black cape never stuttering. The moth made me nervous like the breeze in the willows stroking mal aire, a bad wind of the night.