Flukes
Watch for the flukes
That's our skipper's cry
and one, with held breath
we await the whale
On the sun jeweled sea
our shadowing boat rolls
and we blow on rough knuckles
reddened in the chill air
Hung between gray clouds
and this gray swept sea
lone shearwaters beat
along the low swells
And what should we do
but wait in this time
till his rough knuckles
and back break water
And the swell of his blow
shakes a fist of white air
driven aloft, opens
releasing diamonds
Then that whale goes down
hoisting his great tail
to cleave a last air
Watch for the flukes