A sound calls us to attention: it enters
our silence softly, a wave finally coming to shore
releasing the energy of ten thousand miles
into the hiss of sand and foam.
The whale is gone. All that remains is a problem
for beach goers, scientists, and sanitation.
Look hard at this picture: examine
the rings of white barnacles
like lichen roses around the dead
animal’s mouth, how they echo
the white sea foam; the dead eye,
open to the sun, lets in no images; and
the massive tail – what muscle propelled
this mammal through the sea, cut through
waves, rolled deep under water
with its calf under fin – now still.
A sound calls us to attention: the cry
and pitch of circling birds, the distant boom
of sea, the reverberation of the bell
breaking our silence.
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