The Last Dinosaur

It is the last dinosaur. It sits, scales tucked and eyes now closed to better keep out the sense that something is going to happen, underneath the shade of the last tree. The dinosaur has been eating pears, wondering why they are still growing so quickly on the tree although it hasn’t rained in years—it eats hundreds of them everyday, something the tree barely bothers to notice, a growing pile of deep brown pear seeds drying in the sun. The seeds are thrown by the dinosaur, one at a time, in a effort to keep itself occupied; the aim of the useless exercise is to hit a previously thrown seed with another, and the dinosaur is exceptionally terrible at it, though there is nobody and nothing else around to be unimpressed, to care or not to care. Understandably, it is getting tired of this wearisome, repetitive existence, but by the time the aforementioned happening actually happens, the ground surrounding dinosaur and tree, for miles, is entirely black with seeds.