I Was a Fish by Alfredo Clavarino
It’s an island roughly threescore metres long, not far from the riverbank. People from Eastern Europe, Sunday fishermen, leave the remains of their weekly barbecues.
They also appear to mark their territory with other, at times unsettling, signs. Nature and materials washed up when the river floods complete the work.
Until one morning machines appear and carry out their orders to fell, uproot and flatten it all. Everything disappears, together with the island: trees, objects, signs, remains of the fish. And maybe something else.