through the eyes of a monk

The monk went out to the front yard of the monastery when he felt the first roll of thunder. He raised his eyes to the heavens and sighed. His cataracts wouldn't prevent him from taking in all the beauty of the show that was to come.
He gawked into the distant valley, noting how the heavy clouds dimmed the light of this summer day to a brownish hue. In the fields to the south, he saw the cows and sheep of the priory, patiently grazing and oblivious to the imminent storm. There had been birds chirping from the trees nearby, crickets singing in their holes, the crack of the whip of a carter driving his load of hay to the neighboring village, and all of a sudden, the only sound he could hear was the rustle of his habit being softly blown by the wind. There was a flash of lightning, and with the clap of thunder that followed came the rain.
He could see it pouring down on the hillsides first, like a curtain of leaden dust, playing with the echoes of the roaring valley. He saw then how it fell on the winding road at the feet of the mountains, and in seconds, felt it reach the point where he was standing. It started with a low murmur that increased its volume little by little, plic, plac, plac, in the meadows surrounding the monastery, and soon he was feeling the water drops on the naked skin of his tonsure, on his face, his slightly stooped back, and as he extended his arms, he was deeply conscious of each raindrop as they touched upon his body. He realized that Nature was offering him a symphony with the drums of the thunder thrumming in the immensity of the valley, the strings in the leaves of the trees along the path to the church, the wind playing with the clouds above and whistling through the grain fields.
It was over as quickly as it had started. The music of the rain started to fade towards the horizon, and silence pervaded the air as the wind suddenly stopped. The monk blinked a tear from his tired eyes and saw that the mountains loomed in all their greatness over the valley in the same protecting fashion as usual, that the animals resumed their normal life as a couple of shy rays of sun managed to make their way through the clouds and the few drops still falling from them. The rainbow that followed was as if the director of such magnificent orchestra was bowing before the audience.

Los ojos de la paloma

No sé cómo los tendrán por otros lares, pero en Londres son de un color rojo anaranjado. Estos bichos, tontos por naturaleza, las famosas ratas voladoras portadoras de enfermedades, me producen una mezcla de asco y fascinación. Más de lo primero, porque se cagan en las estatuas, en las barandillas, en la cabeza del pobre desgraciado que acierte a pasar por debajo...y luego hacen ese ruidito al volar, como fufufufufu, que parece que les falte el aliento. Pero también es interesante observarlas, cojeando (a la mayoría les faltan dedos), buscando alguna porquería que llevarse al pico. Pero sin duda lo mejor que pueden ofrecer son las hostias que se dan cuando las asustas mientras se contonean a la caza de una pipa, un cacho de pan, o un trozo de pincho de tortilla entre las mesas de la terraza del bar.

Aquí son doblemente asquerosas, pues su arrullo les sale con acento británico. Son palomas pedantes y pijas, que te miran a través de esos ojos colorados como si fueran mejores que tú sólo porque hablan inglés. Y lo peor es que son punkies. Punkies ingleses. Con el plumaje verde, morado, alrededor del cuello. Y de un gris sucio por el resto del cuerpo. Como los punkies, en definitiva. Imagina un punkie, de los guarros y malolientes, de los de perro y flauta, pero que habla inglés con acento pijo. Eso es una paloma para mí.