Vera Plaines rainforest at dawn. N’Dogo Lagoon rests, a silent mirror beneath a veil of fog, the hills of Moukalaba-Doudou obscured in the distance.
The whistles and warbles of bul-buls, kingfishers, and turacos replace the haunting trill of bushbabies as the last fruit bats tumble out of the tree canopy, dragging the night-shadows back to the depths of forest.
The perpetual drone of the cricket choir steals onto savanna, weaving out of forest on the breath of trees, while in the distant western sky, a rain squall boils from the sea, immersing all in its path in a rain-parade of thundering drums.
The sweet scent of verdant green spiced with a tobacco-like odor of fermenting leaves steams out of forest as we enter. I feel under the gaze of a hundred eyes, and hear a hundred quiet voices giving me up. Caught in this web of life, and no place to hide.
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