Dry Season. Kiangazi. 건기.

The green shoots spring up among the black ashes.
And replace what was lost through the flames.
Flames that enveloped entire hillsides of dry grasses.

Purple flowers appear.
Adding some color to the monotony of the brown shades.

 The river is low.
And no water runs over the dam.

The pink soil scatters the path as the sunset highlights the pure colors.

Wind whips through the valleys and up along the edges of the hills.
The tall brown grasses bend and fold.

The roads are covered in layers and layers of silt.
Trucks are followed by clouds of dust.

It is the dry season.

Everything is brown.
Covered in a layer of dust.

The heat bears down.
Creating beads of sweat.

The soil is recently turned.
Preparing for the rains.

Hundreds of sacks of harvested corn lie waiting.
Waiting to be taken to the cities and sold.

The villagers are in a stalemate.
No income.
Waiting for the new crops.

The earth is parched.
And so are the people.

Cracked skin.
Sore throats.

Warm winds.
Water shortages.

The sun shines every day.
Long and steady.

There is no change in the weather.
Everyone is waiting for November the fifteenth, the day the rains come.