The tar road gives way to dirt.
A kestrel sits on a broken telephone wire, puffed up, nursing a rat bite.
The telephone wire is broken. No one will be phoning today.
I stare out the window of the hired car.

A jackal trots down the road. We pull up to the security office, sign our names on the register. Reason for entry? Work, we say. Work.

Switch on the computers, measuring equipment. Dress up in protective suits, masks. We walk into the veld.

We find a pond. We take samples. We know what the results are going to be.

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