Heat blazed down onto the hot soils that thirst for rain. Hornbills flew above, searching for a waterhole. Their calls to each other were weighted by their struggles, wings heavy with their failure. The Savannah was vast, the horizons met by mountains. Brittle shrubs with sparse leaves scattered the landscape. Acacia trees broke from the ground with their thin, wily trunks, reaching for the clouds that held back. The sky seemed to offer nothing but the rock piles it had carelessly dropped there. They were out of place, alien in their positions. Patches of grasses swayed under the gentle breeze, whispering to one another as the wind blew dirt across the terrain. A hyena pack’s cackling echoed from a valley, the echo multiplying the laughter in the midday heat.

Far to the east is a waterhole where buffaloes and lions drink in unity. A place of peace, of an unspoken treaty between the animals. Crocodiles lurked under murky waters, waiting for someone to get to close. Storks gathered slightly upstream to catch the fish that passed, gracefully scooping them up in their long, clawed legs. This was the one place for many days travel where there was always water. Where the land never failed to provide, where the animals could trust they’d relinquish their thirst.