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10 The Surge Those were watery epochs, breathing salt, nudging our scales into the murk. Then Mama inched her belly up the sand and took a sip of air. Come on up. We liked it where we were, but no, up it was. Fins morphed to hands, tails to feet, we crawled. She was right, we didn’t need to nibble plankton, dodge the carp, eat our cousin minnows. Breakfast was everywhere—six legs limping on clay, four wings forgetting our quick tongues. We ate, we mated, multiplied. But when the sun sinks, I sink with it, back to the surge where everything began. ...

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