Check out the update to The Eyes of God:
Oraculi was silent then, and waddling a few steps from me, uplifted himself in a flutter of black feathers. He flew toward the Mountain, passing over the empty huts on this side of the river. Weaving my way between them, I peer into the windows and through any open door for some taste, some leftover, of that cool stream. Nothing but dust and death greet me, dust and smiling death in every doorway.
The noon sun’s oppressing heat strikes me with its darting rays, and I’ve no sweat left but a dry sweat, sticky and dirty. Tripping over nothing, my lazy feet stop, my aching corpse unable to move. Thirsting, I gaze at the Mountain’s top, ever covered in snow, and pray. From the Mountain a refreshing breeze passes, the hints and aromas of water dancing like fairy guides around me. A coolness covers me, and I recover my broken stride.
Passing the last house, I spy Oraculi upon the needled branch of a dying fir, his dark form against the brown of those evergreen guards, those hardy trees grown on the outskirts of a thick forest. Not even their deep roots can weather this drought. Walking through the empty space between the timber and huts, I follow after that bird.