I started liking Dinosaurs when I was a kid.
I read books, watched The Land Before Time,
and played with little plastic dinos.
I wanted to grow up to be a paleontologist.
Instead, I became a writer.

Some people don’t like the revelation that dinosaurs had feathers.
They want the dinosaurs from their youth:
towering, reptilian predators,
that roamed the Earth without equal.

But isn’t learning about the prehistoric past
part of the fund of dinosaurs?
It was for me, anyway.
Other kids pretended to be T-Rex,
stomping, roaring,
chasing other kids around the playground,
while I sat in the sandbox
burying all my plastic dinos
and then digging them up again,
brushing them off with an old paintbrush,
the way a paleontologist would.

Nostalgia and science:
they aren’t enemies.
Or, at least, they shouldn’t be.

And besides, I can’t be the only one,
who saw a picture of a feathered velociraptor
and immediately wanted to pet it.

A quick little poem for World Poetry Day, about dinosaurs, which are awesome. Especially with feathers.

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