And the stork mother and her mate raised their chicks in the nest atop the Alt-Neu Schule. Summer came. The waters of the Vltava River grew silvery-warm under a bright Czech sun and the red tiled roofs of the city shone like candy.
The flightless angels sat by the great birds. He watched their graceful movements and smiled at the hungry, downy babies. They were good babies and they had good avian parents.
He sang songs to them, the angel did... old hymns and folk tunes played at weddings. He told them stories of each and every person passing on the street below. They knew the baker's wife and the silversmith, the old clothes man and the other rabbi from the other schule down the way.
The angel from that other schule would come to visit. He'd float down onto the shingles, fold his wings ( he was a winged angel... not all are... but that doesn't mean they cannot fly) and tell tales about all the places he'd seen. He told about caravans along The Great Silk Road and reverent crocodiles tolling their prayers, as they waited for sustenance ( who may or may not have also been reverent) to drift their way. The storks listened and told tales of their own. Storks see many places too.
This mad our angel sad. He grew silent. The mother stork knew why and said - Your time will come. I will keep my promise and you will fly, for I will bear you up...
But our story will not end this time. You see, the teller stayed up too late watching news of Paris and the tragic things that happened there.
So let him rest and rise refreshed to spin the tale anew.
<more next time>
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