SIESTA MOMENTS

It is dead outside. The whole country appears to have gone for a lie down. A lone football is being blown up the street as I look out the kitchen window for signs of life. A small boy appears and predictable kicks it, and immediately disappears into a doorway, leaving the ball to roll on by. I am not sure if the wind that is blowing is the Cierzo. It is eerie, mysterious as it knocks over watering cans and blows bits and pieces from other people's terraces onto mine. I can't see the wind but I know it has its own mind. The only sound to compete with the wind is the call of the bee-eater , a beautiful bird that flies up from tropical Africa and inhabits the space above my head. It's time to clear away the table where I sit and join my other half, my media naranja, and the rest of the Pais for some much needed shut eye.