The blue whale’s body adjusts to the polar tide
                                 and the tropics, each latitude calibrating
her breath. A nursing mother produces
           fifty gallons of milk per day; her calf
grows ten pounds an hour.

           It’s purely mathematical, what we’ve known
                      about her dive: rate per second, depth.
It’s a miracle, the narrator says, as we watch her
recede from the boat
           with their camera suctioned to her back—
now we’ll get to see

           and she begins to descend. The narrator
                                 goes quiet. First gray,
then black
           overtake the screen.
                      I listen to her disappear
as the camera slips off, again, ending
                      what we can know of her, that great pulse
           and signal to follow—


Rachel Richardson

Jeremy MirandaIce Wall Gold (oil on canvas)