Islanded by cracked and caustic earth, a dome-shaped hut sits beached in the beating heat of the south Iraqi sun.
A lip of soil, which tells of a once-existent water line, curls around the barren encampment. It used to perch on the water’s edge but now is a good five metres away from where the drying marshlands limp to a start.
There, seated in the brackish shallow green, emaciated buffalo crouch to keep cool, their bones nosing through the water like shark fins.
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