Amitola ran across the yellow plains in the cold. She felt it, just as she always could: the moment before the rejuvenation would occur. The anticipation of all living things hung in the air, which was heavy with the onset of a summer storm. Although it was high noon, the earth trembled in ecstasy as the portents of the coming heaven-tears were signaled by all of nature, and an ethereal darkness filled the skies.

She sighed and felt the first drop; and then another, until her inky black hair clung to the side of her face and her movements became sluggish from the muddy ground.

Her clan was a water-fearing people, which was why they had chosen to live upon the arid mesas, where they were safe from any flood that the sky tried to drown them with.

But Amitola knew the story that the white man told about the floods. The rains fell, and the spirits were pleased with her, for she had seen their gift for its true beauty.

She fell to her knees, and as if on cue, the clouds parted and the Promise colored the sky.