Here in the wild it is quiet, but never silent. There are too many processes, to many tiny interactions, to much life for it to ever really be silent. A breeze rolls through, stirring leaves and causing the plains to briefly shimmer. The plants that survive here are ragged and scarred, survivors of a thousand small battles against uncaring animals, hungry insects and the ever present weather. What leaves they have are tough, beautiful only in their resilience. These grizzled brown branches are the living heart of the wild, though no passer by would ever guess. Without them no animal would have shelter from the storm. Insects would starve and wither. The soil would deaden to dust, leaving nothing but a wasteland.

No flowers will bloom here, nothing so delicate would survive. The flora dreams silently of the blessed season; that rare, brief period when the uneasy raging weather is replaced by gentle rain and soft sun. Then, driven by unthinking impulse, every tree, bush and weathered vine will erupt in a carnival of colour and scent. For a few weeks, this bleak landscape will be a garden of incomparable beauty. But now, now is the long season. Only shifting dry winds and furious storms will exist here, presided over by the endless burning sun.


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