by Shawn Klimek
aged port in a salt-rimmed glass
One white-knuckled
grip still on the heaving bow rail, she pointed towards the place we’d seen the
massive fluked tail descend, then turned to reveal a face drenched with
sea-spray and emotion. “Now, tell me that wasn’t a message from God,” she
said.
“I love whales,” I
countered, “but this planet belongs to humans, too. We all have
needs.”
She lowered her head
and sobbed, shaking spaghetti strands of wet hair left and right.
I reached for her
shoulder. “Maybe God did speak through the whale,” I allowed. “But give us time.
Of what practical use is ‘thirty days’ notice?”
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