Are whales happy where they are?
I’d like to think so.
When a school of tuna tickles against their flippers,
I imagine the neurons in their brains lighting giddy.
Or when the sun is kind on their backs and the breeze gentle,
I feel perhaps life’s pretty swell.
But do you think they’re truly happy where they are?
Do you think they ever tilt their heads toward the vast dark sky
and wish to swim against the streams of stars,
where whaling ships are but dimming dream on a distant dot
and elsewhere, a man called Jonah told tale of being swallowed by a turtle instead?