Pleurocoelus, Ely Kish
Dawn is a pollen-hued hour, when the sun slips its fingers over the landscape and fills shadows with color and heat, waking singing things and kicking the last layer of night’s dust from the eyes.
The sauropods greet dawn with yawns and sighs, then begin feeding. Their bellies are too large to waste time with daybreak rituals. Spotted juveniles, muscles less stiff from sleep, gambol between their parents’ legs. One of them bumps its mother’s ankle and receives a sharp, scolding bray. It mews back, half in obedience, half in defiance, as children are wont to do.
Dawn becomes day. The sun climbs and its touch is less gentle. The forest doesn’t mind; it welcomes the heat and light.
Blinding sun-reflections flare on the river’s surface. It almost looks like the water is on fire, with a molten spot flashing yellow and white. Dragonflies skim though it, dip near the water where freshwater sharks gape and snap, hoping to catch insects that fly too low, their weird smiles looking like black crescent moons breaking the flashes of river-carried sunlight.