Dolphin
Grace notes skim the ocean’s skin—
silver arcs rising,
falling in the breath of salt and sky.

Dolphins,
sculpted in joy,
thread through waves like laughter made flesh.

Not bound by earth,
nor tethered to silence,
they speak in pulses, clicks,
a language shaped in liquid syllables.

They ride the storm’s shoulder,
unafraid of wind’s fury,
dancing in the foam
as if chaos were a game.

We call them intelligent—
but what do they call us?
Landwalkers,
or perhaps
the lonely ones?

Their eyes hold mirrors
to something ancient,
older than ships,
older than our thirst to name everything.

In their leap,
there is more than play:
a hymn to motion,
to the freedom of not knowing fear.

Pods like families,
like dreams that remember each other—
mothers guiding calves through kelp jungles,
fins brushing in tender counsel.

At dusk,
they vanish
into the pewter of the sea,
leaving only ripples
and a silence that listens.