Whalesong

for the ones who sing into silence

Somewhere below the shimmer line
where light forgets itself,
a whale turns slow in a cathedral of salt—
each scar on her skin
a stanza.

She sings,
not to summon,
not to find—
but to remember.

A song older than shipwrecks.
Older than ropes and sails.

The deep drinks it.
Holds it like breath.
Lets it echo
along trenches where no eyes go,
only ghosts
and pressure
and time without hands.

We used to think it was a beacon,
a call to others.
But not all songs seek ears.
Some are memory
made into sound—
just one creature
telling the dark:
I was here.

Ryan Stone