Missing Migration

Missing Migration

  

Two headlands jut craggy and gray

into the brine, cupping the beach

before the tide swells. Gray whales sink

beneath a slate horizon, slitting nothing

with their breath but imagination,

my eyes trained to catch

on the smallest of clues –

 

Orange bill of a bobbing surf scoter.

The arrowed purpose of a tern’s flight.

Smooth-humped seals

perch-fishing below the breakerline.

 

At my feet, finger-sized pieces of driftwood

point neatly in the direction of retreating waves.

They form miniature mountain ranges,

ravines and estuaries, resemble

blast-trees after an eruption, gleam

like red, yellow and black animals that glide

through our view, mass tidal movements

that pass the periphery of our lives,

along and between all coasts –

 

            Alewife and salmon.

            Slug and salamander.

            Warbler and swallow.

            Swan and caribou.

            The strong wings of geese

            sloughing off night

            up a black river.

 

Out of our cars and hobbling

on rolled-smooth basalt,

I am not the only one waiting

for a whale-print to surface,

that hologram of hope rising

before the beast, for what

we have nearly missed.