The land here has changed. The world is not as was. The ground is hard and cracked, the sky darker, colours muted. Plants, burnt and withered, twist out of the blasted ground in lonely clumps, if at all.
Continue onto the heart, perhaps. Past the shattered rocks, the scorched earth, the forest of empty trunks. Pass into the land that is truly dead, in the hollows where the river once was, where the cracked mud lies firm and die sand drifts past in lonely whispers, taunted by the wind, slithering and hissing into the caverns below.
The rift itself opened above, a shade in the sky, a darkness that gleams in the light. The air hits it and trembles, a soft humming that rises in intensity until there is nothing left but the rift, the rift, the rift in the world.
There are no birds to hit it.