Despite my glazed, black eye, not dead, not I. A whaling man would know better. A kittiwake spoke and by the power of my flukes I heaved my scarred bulk at the the sky. Now blow-hole to the surface I am perpendicular, at peace with my own slap and wallow. Between the music that lulls me and the tide’s sharp tug slides the shadow of the she-whale that suckled me. How perfectly we swam, my smaller belly nudging hers. I learned worship at the altar of her mouth. Now time makes me master of this brooding estate. Only man and the orca oppose me. My desire is to swim. I will father many children. My great purpose is to breech and blow.