Before the light, there’s a stirring. Not noise — yet — but tension. As if the whole bush is holding its breath, bristling with unseen movement. You sit, wrapped in a fleece, cupping something hot, watching the pale grey sky slowly gain colour.
The world smells raw — wet grass, cool earth, dung. A hippo grunts from the lagoon. Lions roar far off, deep and sonorous. A baboon coughs awake.
Then it begins. A soft rustle, the warble of robin-chats and the soft, chiding calls of turtle doves. Francolins shout and bulbuls join in with erratic outbursts. Bush shrikes, warblers, flycatchers and cuckoos fuel the dawn chorus, pouring their voices into a swelling crescendo of rasps, croaks and chuckles, whistling duets and melodious piping solos.
The light seeps in, washing…
