Tyrannosaurus, Doug Henderson, 1998
The silence of a body of its size seems paradoxical. Footfalls and the gentle hush of leaves against hide are the only sounds the dinosaur makes. Birds within the trees’ foliage make their presence known with constant singing, but Tyrannosaurus does not sing now.
In the morning it did, drumming out a rhythm of guttural croaks and rolling moans, deep sounds like the tremor of an ocean-covered continent or the pulse of a distant dying star. Others of its kind made their territorial dronings, too, and then, when the morning’s cool flared into the day’s heat, the tyrannosaurs went silent. There was no more need for singing. The circles of each’s daily sovereignty imprinted, they do not cross into another’s hunting ground.
Now is the time of deadly speechlessness, the time of mute stalking. A song would ruin the surprise.