A breeze rustled through the branches of the eucalyptus tree that had stood for two lifetimes beside the stone farmhouse.
As the sun rose over the hill the light danced through the leaves and bounced a thousand shadows through the open shutters and onto the roughly plastered wall behind the bed.
The flickering sunlight moved down onto his face.
August had delivered the coup-de-grace, a hail storm, the like of which the locals could not recall in living memory. The dark storm clouds came up over the mountains like a rolling fog of burning oil. The tempest tore the vines from their stands and hammered the trees into submission.
He watched as his wine and olive harvest disappeared in a torrent of hail-stones that melted into the soil along with his income.
It was as though this last season was an omen.
