moscas en la casa

Reports come in from all over: the cold of winter is settling in. Switzerland has snow. Slovakia, too. In Pennsylvania, the temperature has dropped, and snow fell the first week of November. Here in Southern Spain, the weather remains hot and dry.

Andalucia sometimes experiences a phenomenon called “second spring.” Rain falls hard in October, quenching the thirst of summer and calling to life the vegetation that lay dormant. The world dons a green mantle for the winter.

No rain has come, neither has the temperature bothered to drop. The red dirt crumbles beneath my feet, rises, lingers, lands again. People say they can count the number of times it’s rained in the past several months, but the olive trees don’t mind. They seem to thrive in the parched clay, hiding moisture away in the husks of their ancient trunks and the small, oily fruits that dangle from their branches.

The flies, too, enjoy the extra time the weather has given them to be nimble in the warmth before winter’s cold sends them off. We go about the business of living and so do they. The cool hacienda is a haven from the sun in the afternoons, and we light a fire in the hearth to stave off the slight chill of the evening. We work and then bask; we dine then wash the dishes, mindlessly brushing away the myriad winged phantoms that dance past our fingers to alight once again, like the dust, on everything.