It was the giant eye beneath us,
giant eye in a giant head—
baleen-plated, tubercled, throat-pleated—
spread out beneath our keel,
our boat’s sharp backbone,
giant eye meeting our own eyes,
as we tipped over the railing, gaping.
Whale, watching. Here was a mind
more expansive
than our own, its view more
immersive. Time slowed down
to an underwater speed.
The massive body turned,
twisted, propelled itself
through the viscosity of water,
flippers like wings pumping against
resistance, body tilting
towards light.
We strained our gaze
through the dense atmosphere
of ocean. The pebbled bulk
flipped tail, dove down and
disappeared. We waited.
The morning fog had
cleared, white clouds rose like towers
at the horizon.
Long flippers reached
out of the ocean, languidly
slapped rhythm.
Cetaceans multiplied.
Leviathans hurled themselves airborne,
flipped massive bodies, crashed back
into the sea.
What was it for—utility or joy?
We—small, graceless creatures—watched,
elated. Again,
they launched themselves skyward.