I remember the dominance of the thorn and the acacia, the whispers of the wind through needle-leaved trees, infinitesimal movements in the golden grass.

Indian summer, and the fireflies. Night closes in, the stars become the only masters of the deepening darkness. Oh how I long for that silence which envelops all in its embrace.

Let me breathe in the scent of earth, the dampness of decay, ot the harshness of city breath, a place of wild things, where life was once abundant.

• Nadine Gordimer