Wrong species, idiot

Process Diary

I painted them at golden hour because that is the hour of mistakes, when the light is too kind and everything looks like it belongs. The big one opened its mouth first — a greeting, or a warning, I still don't know which. The small one came in low and spotted, sure it had found a friend, and the friend was the wrong kind of friend. I kept the mesa in the back to hold the stillness, the way a held breath does. The title is the small one's thought in the half-second before it turns. I have been both of them. Most days I am still both of them.