My hands smell like crushed eucalyptus leaves. I have seen the Maasai herding their cattle, being chased by drought, animals scooped thin at the hip. A fawn colored calf lies dead under a tree. These are the skies meant for children: prying stubborn thorns from bare feet, herding cattle under moonlight, planting sorghum in school gardens. The children at the shambas giggle and dance under the rain clouds that refuse to burst. Sister and sister press their noses together, whispering secrets. A two-year old sings, a chorus pursues him.
