There's is a marsh ,25 miles from where I was born. It hugs the inlet coast and anchors out into the bay with boardwalks like veins and sand bars like capillaries. When I was small we took car trips with Big Daddy to the look out point, it felt so alien landing in that dirt lot in his high-yellow Buick (15 years later I pushed it through the desert).
I climbed the wooden rail, thick as my chest, and saw dinosaurs tall as the crows nest bury their heads for leaves and krill. Chris asked the ranger what we could see. She said there were birds, fat and thin and small and long from all over the world and they came to nest.
I moved to a warehouse in the city. We sat on the docks and watched hood temples, drip, of the broken sea wall. We'd drive through the marsh to raves under the lookout and watch it rain sweat form the sign that said no fishing if you plan to consume. The birds can't read, so they contined to eat, but I saw no dinasoaurs.
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