It is dry season. Clouds gather
in a promise of rain; the empty stomachs
of Boabab trees rumble, their arms crooked
with unanswered prayers.
Impala living on nervous tension
brave the flat plains of back-burnt
grass; eagles with front row seats
scoff at the sealing of fate.
Herds of zebra and buffalo cross off
the days before migration, they know
the lions are lying low and
naming their troops.
Night caresses day with its
midnight fingers, Mt Meru
towers sentinel, its purple skin
luminous in fading light.
Crickets beat their legs
against brittle grass, frogs with
raspy coughs croak at a cloudless
sky, pleas for moisture lost on the
ears of a dry night breeze
Askari assemble, ready to
guard our gates and protect our
dreams. Crunch of boots on
gravel a lullaby for easy sleep.