His sail warmed by the sun, the dimetrodon ambles nimbly among the arborescent horsetails on the sandy bank of a clear stream flowing out of the Ancestral Rockies. He pauses to dine on the carcass of a giant millipede, looking up to the canopy of the new forest as he gulps down chunks of flesh. The scaly, hundred-foot-tall poles of the lepidodendron trees are bare but for their leafy, bifurcated heads. A giant dragonfly buzzes loudly overhead, blotting the sun for an instant.
His claws dig words in the bank as he waddles off among the green roots of the scale trees, and his mountains will erode to sand and a sea will cover the place and dry up and more mountains will rise and fall and then rise again before his distant descendents start thinking about geology.
And his words are,
“My bones are your rocks and my forest your fuel,
but my earth you shall never have.”
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