Easter special with a short story The Yawn by the River

More about Easter special with a short story The Yawn by the River

The morning sun pushed its way laboriously across the riverbank, skimming gnarled trees, muddy banks, and a field of crushed grass blades. The mist still hung among the stalks like a last thought when the first buzzing of dragonflies awoke the day. And in the midst of this hazy awakening lay a nest. Not made of feathers, not soft or clean—but a hollow of damp mud, reinforced by twigs, surrounded by crooked footprints and tiny holes in the riverbank clay. Inside: an egg. Brown, mottled, earthy. You could almost have mistaken it for a stone, were it not for the slight twitching that rippled through the mud. Then—a crack. Soft, almost timid. A second followed, this time sharper. The surface of the egg bulged briefly, a small crack appeared. A pair of dragonflies paused in flight. A turtle looked up. Another crack. The shell shook. Suddenly it burst open – squishy splinters flew into the damp sand – and from inside a small, hunchbacked creature pushed itself into the light. A baby crocodile. Its skin was dull, still covered in damp mud, but beneath it, the first armored scales already gleamed like old leather. The eyes, large and round, blinked lazily. Then – a yawn. A huge, toothy, hilarious yawn with tiny, white teeth that seemed far too determined for such a small mouth. It lay there, completely still. Breathing heavily. The world was vast. Full of sound, full of movement. A reed stalk danced across its back. A dragonfly landed on its snout. It squinted – then closed its eyes again. Too early for hunting. Yet. But something inside it was awake. An instinct. Not a command, not a lesson – but knowledge embedded deep in the shell: You were made to glide through mud. To wait silently. To survive. The crocodile lurched forward. Still clumsy, still clumsy. It left a tiny, winding trail in the mud – as if a finger had traced a beginning. A small fish rustled in the reeds. The crocodile twitched, but stayed lying down. Watched. Then it slowly righted itself, as far as its round belly allowed. The sun fell on its back. A breeze brought the scent of water, algae, life. A first splash. The shore was near. The crocodile looked back. The eggshell, broken, steaming, decorated with the mud of the beginning, lay behind it like a shattered secret. Soon he would hunt, soon glide, soon find his territory. But today – today was his first step. And the river? It was already waiting.