It was May and unseasonably high temperatures hung over Andalusia as the wise old stork flew over the annual town fair. He could smell the frying peppers and sizzling meats and see the horses elegantly moving across the sands and through the riots of flamenco dress and Sevillanas music.
He flew on to the town centre, in search of some peace. He was feeling low and a bit under the weather and settled up on a roof where it was peaceful though hot as the unwelcome winds were blowing in from Africa.
The stork had a lost a good friend in the last few days and contemplated him as he watched the purple-blue blossom of the Jacaranda trees, that lined one of the streets, twirl downwards one after the other to the pavements, the road and onto the heads and drinks of the few people sitting at a cafe.
Although he felt down, the stork was aware things would change. Like the wind and the temperatures change and the blossom falls and the seasons move on, nothing is final and it wouldn’t be long before his spirits were lifted once again.