[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/FallonKenai.mp3″]
According to the guide, had my photos
been better, we could have identified
any of the whales as individuals by their tail
flukes. Lobed and dark as glassen water,
their under-sides were stained white with
markings peerless as our own fingerprints:
secrets they chose to tell not to us but to
the sleet, which called them up, which called
for the force of the thrust of an airplane engine
(understand: we needed something human
to understand). Knowing nothing and never
having followed anything which could be seen
from far away, difference was lost on us,
and we couldn’t stop shivering, telling ourselves
how strong we were for facing weather.
We had come so far to see them breach among
the dying glaciers, which growled like predators
before calving. The whales alone were unafraid
of the ice, though we should have understood
the violent shed as sensible, effortless, a letting go.
Toothless whales have two blowholes.
They have to think to breathe.