Sun on the water, seaweed falling over the backs of dragons. My father put his head down and stirred the mud with his horn. Sluggish fish, scared into action. His left forepaw, the one that had been sitting still in the mud for many heartbeats, rose up and caught the fish so fast and easily it could have been made of mud instead of flesh and bone; a rivulet of blood snaked through the water.
Good! Joy! I jumped around the shoreline, sending up silver splashes, overjoyed with the prospect of eating well tonight. My mother already had a pile of fish on the shore, some flapping their tails weakly against the hummock of grass we'd used to mark them as ours. Other ridgeback dragons stood on the shore or waded all up and down the length of the river, the largest and most senior at the top where the fish wouldn't suspect, from the smell of blood and the large shadows, that a hunting group had picked this spot. My uncle, his green skin almost black with age, headed our group.
My father hissed