The Canyon of Echoes

The rains did not come.

Weeks passed under a sky that burned white and merciless, clouds drifting high but never breaking. The grasslands of KwaZulu, once painted green and gold, turned brittle and brown. Rivers thinned to streams, streams to trickles, trickles to dust. The herds that had once crossed the great river now stood in scattered clusters, ribs showing, eyes heavy with worry.