sea otter poems

 

Sea Otter 1

 

I see you floating, baby on belly.
You nest her (I know it's a girl child)
in a cradle of kelp,
then dive deep,
retrieving orange starfish or spiny urchin,
crack to find softest flesh,
and feed your waiting child.

Countless journeys to the deep
to grow this girl,
to feel her heartbeat
close as seaweed wraps
you together.

We watch, my girl and me, from our distance,
our binoculars trained on you--
on ourselves.

---

Kayak Trip

 

Don't paddle! you say,
as we bump oars,
water splashing over us.
So I watch your strokes more closely,
try to match your rhythm with my own.
Sometimes, I sit still while you
fight the current--
longing to help, knowing I can't,
I try to look instead
at the kelp beds we travel,
hunting for sea otters.
Sometimes I just can't help
myself
and stick the paddle in quietly,
using it as a rudder
to try to get us
to where I think you want to go.
It's hard work,
being your passenger,
learning to sit quietly,
watching you make your way
with sure, silent strokes,
always ahead of me,
facing your own horizon--
For me, it's the hardest way
to paddle--
for you, the surest way
to glide ahead.

 

April 8, 2001

 

 

---

Sea Otter 2

A first we shared them,
through binoculars
as mother and child,
believing nothing could
sever the kelp that nested them
together.

Later, we saw them again,
the mother diving deep
to bring back treasure-
golden starfish,
pearly oyster,
to crack and feed her babe.

Now, we see an otter pair,
and realize that the ones we saw
that February, years ago,
have separated by now,
and this pair today
may be that pup, with
new pup of her own.

Or, maybe not.
There are lots of otters out there,
each with tag,
swimming alone.

Do the otters miss each other
after making that
final dive together?
Or do they swim on,
finding new kelp,
to make new nests,
woven with
the only barest filament of memory.
They do swim on,
That we know.
And so must it be.

April 8, 2001