I am a sea lion hauled out here
On this cobble, sand, and boulder rookery,
This strand between cliff and water where
The air is wind and the smell all sea
And female. Others frisk about the rocks,
Mate, nurse new pups, molt in the sun
Like fat, whiskered lizards from the tropics
Come to this sub-Arctic shore and grown hyperborean.
I gaze at the waves with no inclination now to dive
And go nosing through the sea for all those reasons to react.
Right now I just want to kick back a little, take five,
Savor this momentary respite from living’s pact
With predator and prey, my belly full, my flesh alive
And protected by the Endangered Species Act.
Jim Hale recently retired from NOAA to spend more time learning to play the fiddle. He is no poet.
This Writers’ Weir piece was originally published in the Empire’s sister publication, the Capital City Weekly. The CCW accepts poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction submissions for Writers’ Weir on a rolling basis and will publish them as space and competition allows. Send a submission to editor@capweek.com.
