The first time I saw an orca breach
I wasn't stopped by power or photo opportunity
but the silence after, as the sea’s breath slowed
like it wasn't hiding creatures the size of buses
in its depths. And me, perched on driftwood,
my small bones feeling the miles from home.
The mountains scraping the sky, turning purple
in twilight, do not know my name. I am a visitor
butchering their names upon my tongue. Still,
a longing rises within - a desire to belong,
without ownership, like moss sits with gravestones.
The leaf litter is thick with whispers older than
my bones. I do not rake them into neatness, but
step in, full aware of my clumsiness, my chest
open to their green unravelling. Aching with wonder,
a willingness to be made unfamiliar, to let the
vastness seep in.
Photo by Thomas Lipke on Unsplash
