To call it lethargic would be hyperbole, because the lozenge of scales is like a log, immobile in the mudflats even as I approach with tentative steps to stand ten feet away. No indication that the air shifts between us, though I might just harbor malice, a half- thought to fling a stone to see what rise it gets. No sense of who’s the predator, who the prey, though the impulse to harm, once formulated, takes hold like a pair of jaws nearly impossible to pry back open. Lurks still in the mind. Appetite incarnate.
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