Thylacine time.

 In the landscape of language on a warm summer’s day, a stream of consciousness flows through the fields of emotion the warm sun penetrates. There is much life here ducks and wallabies sport on the edge of what is and what maybe yesterday or sometime. 

Among the rushes standing tall in the still air a platypus basks. The creature exists for a million years without raising a question of identity, language, or invention with the one exception: a hungry thylacine scouting for wallabies along the edge of the river.

With a splash she is under the surface of thylacine consciousness.

She has lungs to breathes air and smells prey underwater, she has electro-sensitive lips to seize the crustacean or worm that wriggles to escape, she has rich, brown fur and has webbed feet to propel her through the water. She possesses a large, flat tail to rudder her body out of harms reach.

She is a biological anomaly.

She is a duck billed platypus and lays eggs!

The ancient Greeks would not have imagined her or Linnaeus could not have catalogued her.

What emotion, what language, what landscape is this?

Creativity exists!

Logic should discard her as a cheap import, a plaything for kids.

Science would not have given her a chance to exist.

She hunts in running water, between river stones of intellect, through currents of landscape then swims to her bank of emotion. Her instinct is to burrow deep, she enters and runs quickly along several metres of tunnel to a den at the end where two eggs lay. She calls one reason and the other intellect and nuzzles each gently meditating on what comes next; inspiration comes this way and she lactates ego from glands on her chest.

She is a creature that might never exist anywhere other than in streams or underneath stones, she might never venture into the trees for fear of meeting Thylacine or Python, and she knows best.

She simply exists.