Shadows of Whales

What I wanted to say was that I remembered the clouds,
that I watched them paint shadows across the ground,
giant birds of prey gliding across the aether - whales,
lost in a different sea, to float
white and pregnant

with all the sounds of things; thundering out
threats of the sky, sounds full of fury
and the disease that catches you off guard
"Open your door. I must come in."

what I wanted to say was that the echoes are the same
that the pulses of sound are just pieces of the original
instead of slightly dimmer copies
every one a herald
of the silence, soon to come.

I wanted to say things that, maybe, you'd listen to -
that sort of alabaster sound that grabs your chin
forces you to look deeply into brimming eyes
and then tear yourself away
one piece less
slightly less whole.

but there are reasons to believe,
tiny imprints in the sand that spin the shape of feet
that glance softly against your shadow
then fade into the ocean
where the whales once were,

before they became the casters of shadow,
painters in the dirt, and dust, and worry
that all paths hold.

I didn't want to hear the declaration of young men
that see the world in eyes of green or brown or blue,
watching them define a word they never understood
pin back their capes
and charge into the battlefield
to come back bloodied, and wise
to come back searching for diplomacy
when it is obvious what price bravery insists upon.

Instead,
what I wanted, what I heard, what I saw, what I knew
went the way of footprints
out into the ocean
hopefully to drown,
perhaps to one day become a whale
casting shadows on the world.