I WAS THERE when the shots rang out in echoes across our valley.
Our herd we had worked were like skeletons, just hide hanging like clothes on a coat hanger. The grass long gone, turned to dust, brown choking dust, in our hair, our clothes, hearts.
Our vegetable garden and fruit trees long since gone as the creek dried up to less than a trickle.
Oppression, deflation was evident in Mum and Dad’s eyes. You can’t make it rain, you can’t start a pump with no water. Death has a smell, death has a taste, drought!