The gallineta and the tunnel of leaves

That Monday in April, José Marín was walking along one of the reserve's most densely overgrown trails when he found her: a solitary gallineta, still among the leaf litter, as though she were part of the ground itself. The forested corridor formed around her a closed vault of branches and green foliage — the kind that lets sunlight through only in thin threads that dissolve somewhere far down the path. The bird was alone. No company, no hurry, no sign of unease at the presence of the observer. José managed to film her before she disappeared into the thick vegetation, and the photograph left of the place says everything: damp earth, fallen leaves, silence. The kind of scene you come across when a forest has been quietly healing for a long time, undisturbed. It was a brief sighting, almost understated. But in a reserve where every species tells its own story about the health of the forest, seeing a gallineta at ease on that trail is a good sign that something is working well out there, deep inside.