by Felix Jung

When killer whales hunt, they search
in groups. They are not solitary predators
who slide beneath the waves, composing
lonely hunting songs with words like I am
a whale. The sea is big, and I am small.

Instead, they choose the comfort of a clan.
The rub of dorsal fins can make the world
seem smaller by a bit. When killer whales
are killing, it's usually a bigger whale
they want: a humpback, blue or gray.
Each little killer takes its place and bites
down on the tail, the fin, and holds.
One by one they surface, breathe in air,
returning like a jazz riff to resume their place
among the rest. Sometimes this killing
goes for hours. The minutes tick away
as the larger one just holds itself, waiting
for the chance to sing. It waits so long
the lungs release, the water rushes in.

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