A whale, torn deep by the harpoon
and roped to the hunters who would bring it down,
sounds deep into the darkness. Escape is the first impulse…
deny them of their prize.
At four hundred feet the pain is still there. At six hundred…deeper still.
At eight hundred something gives…changes for the better.
The surface calls… The hunters wait.
Breach…. And plunge again. They are gone.
I plunge. I sound the depths.
The pain is there but not like it was.
The scar persists but the wound is healed.
And yet, the memory is sharp.
I plunge. I sound the depths. I breach.