Cars parked on the shoulder. Seaward an orca with her calves breaches as though mere air should buoy her as much as salt water. The crowd here wishes it were so: Nikons and anoraks, they hoot each time she thrusts skyward and, finding slim purchase, thrusts again, hard, beating wind with her huge flukes, becomes more air- than sea-borne, finally sinks. Me, I can’t understand this yen that makes one give up liquid for gas, something tenuous for something always fragiler. I ache for earth's kiss, your floating skin press.