Theories of Extinction

It's not that I didn't believe it, it's that I didn't want to,
like when I heard that dinosaurs had feathers. All that time
spent, I was so sure. Everything I'd been told was wrong.
Your scaled skin suddenly plumed.
Snow falling around us like ash.

Eons ago I threw a plastic stegosaurus at my brother's head
and a spine scratched his temple, sent him scurrying to a
volcanic mother and, gee,
wouldn't the toy manufacturer have saved me
some trouble if it had been covered in down.

I've changed but still throw things
away, still cold-blooded, still wary of eruptions
but even more so of meteoric meetings with
the enraptured eyes of someone strange and new
and, well, we've only got so much time left.

You were always impressive,
even with all your feathers pulled back,
wings tucked against the cold.

Really, I thought we were too big for this.
It was decoration, to catch your eye.
All that color
grounded.

It's not that I didn't believe it;
I knew you could fly at any moment.