Protoceratops by Lucas-Attwell The old matron was always dusted with sand, a rouge of grit on her bo

ProtoceratopsbyLucas-Attwell

The old matron was always dusted with sand, a rouge of grit on her bony cheeks, powderings of yellows and tans across her back and haunches. She’d lived long enough for the desert to start to become part of her, instead of the other way around. When the wind kicked up and it seemed the very earth was being swept into the sky, she would simply face away from the gusts—no one likes sand in their nostrils—and hum to herself, letting the storm pass as if it was as innocuous as a June breeze. When the gales ceased and the sand settled across her body, she would strut, nose high, waiting for the desert to acknowledge her glamor.