Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

L'ENVOI
W ^OWISI goes the sun like a hall of fire over dark
i y Lubaland, The first sough of the cold night wind
goes through like a dart. 'The distant dogs in the
fishing hamlet howL The frogs creaky croak, and the bitterns
hump, hump. To climax weirdness, the fire has recently
swept through the long yellow grass, covering the land with
a dark pall. The sluggish stream by which we camp seems
a mere trickle of liquid mud^ the only hint of water being the
deeper dye of green down its hollow. There you draw your
drinking water the colour of bad tea ; there, too, at sunset
the reed'huck comes down to drink. And as the darkness
deepens the sighing sounds of Africa s dark are heard saying—
" THE NIGHT COMETH WHEN NO MAN CAN WORK.''
* * #
Afar the Golden-Crested Crane is calling!