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?”