Whaling

By John Delaney

At the first blow, someone shouts. By the second, we’ve rushed the windows to catch a glimpse of this spouting off. There’s another, and another—just enough to keep our rapture growing.

In front, the Olympic Mountains loom over Port Angeles where we’re heading. The whale, or whales—we’re assuming now a mother and her sportive calf have hooked the narrative thread—

herald their way down the Strait of Juan de Fuca to the ocean, crossing the ferry’s path, baiting our thoughts with these firework displays jetting out of the motioning water:

puffs and exhalations we take as signs of mighty, sentient beings ascending from imponderable depths, as we, too, loose our pent-up prayers in praise of faith and wonder.