I’m one of the dinosaur imprints at the history museum.
13 by 19 inches. Hardened mud.
Discovered in 1988.
Only here to entertain tourists and make money.
The historians took it into their own hands to piece together my life.
Small round footprints mean docile, young herbivore.
Apparently I was stomping away from predators, scared of the oncoming death,
but I tripped and fell in the mud, only barely escaping into the night.
These experts deduced that I was olive drab colored, traversing the dark jungle
aimlessly, looking for a quick meal.
Little did they know that I could fly.
Little did they know that I was soaring to feed my children, us screeching back and forth to keep
in close contact.
Never will they know that I was chasing the life-giving sun, the warm golden glow reflecting off
of my wing.
And never will they know that they and everyone else would be wrong until the end of time,
the story of my rawr kept to myself.