Dinosaurs at Lark Quarry

My hand’s on footprints, set in stone.
The rock dissolves to mud,
there’s death; I hear the maimed ones moan.
I feel hot breath; touch blood.

The little herbivores that grazed
where banks were lushly grassed;
the carnivores that left them dazed
and bleeding; that’s the past.

Yet present time is blurred. I stand
and view the past, and let
some unseen presence take command:
I find my palms are wet.