The air is clean across the strait.
Waves break, perhaps hide orcas
while we pass over close shoals,
out to the open water where whales
watch from far beneath.
I send you photographs and messages
to let you know I won’t forget those
spare moments we share in common.
I know so little of your habits;
a collection of stories and anecdotes.
I know only that your eyes are
rings of plaintive March skies.
I know you are afraid, in a moment,
fearless in how you approach me.
On the outer deck today, everybody is
snapping photographs, silver-plated seconds.
They are laughing at gulls racing us then
scattering at sudden pulls of the ship’s horn.
September is turning down the shades on Summer,
but I am underwater with the orcas, watching.