Drought has ravaged the plains of this country. The earth cracks and crumbles under the feet of the souls brave enough to walk these barren fields. The lonesome riverbed ran dry months ago; the flow of mud has become a wind of dust. Dead grasses layer the prairie with a dusty mulch.
The sun begins to set. The glow casts an orange fire of desperation, but no flames ignite. Nothing stands taller than a blade of wilted grass. The plains are a land without shadows, without life. Soon, though, the greatest umbra of all descends upon these fields: night. The stars shine down, twinkling silently, as if playing a song without instruments. The toneless melody haunts the listeners like a long-dry riverbed. The moon casts a gloomy light onto the plains, the river: another inaudible tone, another voiceless melody.
Suddenly, the moon begins to flicker. A new tune begins to clash with the old melody. The moon becomes obscured - an instrument disappears from the symphony of silence. More clouds ominously slide across the sky and quell the music of the stars. With a blinding flash, a true song reverberates from a new band of thunderclouds and raindrops.
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