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The sky was tinted yellow-red and the wind was bound in silence for a moment. In the light of the morning star that shines brightly, the nest of a finch was hanging motionless on a cane palm. The stars twinkled and beckoned kindly. For a moment everyone thought, peace of mind, had finally found its place of rest.

But suddenly the sky was tinged ominously orange-brown. The wind, once motionless, now began to gently gallivant through the leaves. But before long she was frighteningly nimble in gale force. With storm clouds drenched with moisture to the brim. The wind howled across the Africa plains.  In the violence of the storm, towns and cities sank under hail and floods.

The wind and lightning bolts crushed and mutilated everything in its path. In it, many-a-man and beast would find a mud grave. Soon after, the sky was once again softly calming, tinted orange-red. The wind was unnaturally still again. This, while vultures would circle slowly over a landscape where death would stink.