Solitary Uintathere, knee-deep in a brackish bog, slowly and thoughtfully munches on fern and moss as the Eocene sun rises from behind the dense cypress.
So remote from anything significant in the timeline, as 41,917,067 B.C. was pretty much an off-year as far as global history is concerned.
Yet this beast seems to understand the greater scope of what was, and what will come to be.
Perhaps he is a reincarnation of a lower order Triassic reptile. Or even a retroincarnation of a latter-day hominid.
Still he stands in place, a plodding gnaw of the jaw, a languid blink of eyes abdicant.
Soon the fen will turn to tar, and our friend’s form will be the subject in a Polaroid™ of pitch, bound to the hands of the continuum’s clock, ponderings petrified, or perhaps even paroled.
Whither the mind and soul of this robust beast?
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