Dolphin Interlude

Eyes closed relaxed on a bench outside

you drift back years crossing the Atlantic.

The ocean beyond sight of land

offers the enormity of earth, your sailboat

a speck on a bubble of foam, and you

seen only under magnification if at all.

But they come, the dolphins

dozens in the pod, swimming in waves

their bodies curving, barely breaking the surface

then leap from swim to flight.

Under sail at eight knots

you feel sluggish, standing still

as these nymphs dart beside you

on either side teasing in the bow wake.

They dive under the boat, you lean to look

they burst upward, tempting your balance

filling you with lightness of laughter.

You are a child. Clowns have come to play.

For weeks they stay, leaving to feed

returning as if drawn by this hull in their world

these rare creatures on but not in water.

You begin to recognize individuals.

A scar behind the dorsal fin of one

flukes with a notch cut out of another

yellow lesions staining the back of a third.

Do they recognize you?

One sees you. Wherever you move

this one swims to your side of the boat.

You don’t notice until the pattern is set.

At last the dolphin has your attention.

You sit in the stern, lean against the rail

and the dolphin comes, swims beside you

within two feet of your touch.

You cannot move or speak, only stare.

When you are filled with the moment

know no other way to make contact

to show this creature you are aware

you reach your hand out to touch.

Instantly the dolphin dives, disappears.

You stare at empty water, what is this?

A moment of disbelief, you look around.

All dolphins are gone.

They do not return.

You open your eyes. The brightness dazzles.

Across a lawn in front of an office building

with a lighthouse façade, are dolphins

sculpted from shrubbery on a rolling lawn.

They portray swimming, some in low leaps

on a green sea. Right now you want to find

the sculptor who has seen what you have.

You march to the building and enter.

Michael Hughes