The marshlands were always a place of prosperity and grace. They lived harmoniously. When the rain came, the marsh people rejoiced and returned to their activities, yet for weeks the marshlands lacked the rain they came to depend on.
To those who lived in the marshes, it seemed longer than weeks; the drought drained them of their energy, like a vacuum sucks up dirt and dust from a hardwood floor. They needed the rain. They dined during times to avoid the rain. They hunted for food when the rain had come. They fished when the rivers were high and populous. They worked day and night around the cycle of rain. But then, when the rain disappeared, they became chickens with their heads on backward. In desolation they starved. Their naivety and dependence caused their downfall, but they would not accept that truth yet. Soon, the inhabitants of the marshlands came to the realization that singing “Kumbaya” around the fire would not fix their problems, at least not yet. Sending smoke into the air would not order the rain to return home. Lighting a signal fire would not save them now. A few choreographed rain dances and cheers would not save a dying land from drought. Who would rescue them? What would they be rescued from? Would anyone notice or care? Since the marsh people noticed their emergency, they fought between each other for resources. The lack of rain crazed them, just like the lack of interactive technology would craze a typical teenager.
But in the midst of the last of the fighting and the shouting and screaming and warring conflict between tribes for food and water, the rain returned to wash the blood from their faces.
Perhaps they needed to save themselves from themselves first.