Bouncing over blue-green water, roaring motor behind us,
we laugh and talk through the wind and spray,
out to look for whales,
black and white orcas over thirty miles away,
a long distance to go by boat. We hope to see them
break the surface to breathe.
My children lean into the wind, three in front of me,
one by my side—sturdy adults, always my children.
How do they move so fast?
Each was born over thirty years ago,
a long distance to here. My hopes for them
break the surface to breathe.
Three children in front of me, one by my side,
drenched, red coveralls, orange boat, looking for orcas.
Nothing is black and white. All is color.
