By Jeff Stone
It was a joke. Business-as-usual side-taking politics, followed by a comically belated “understanding” of the problem and catastrophic last-ditch attempt at salvation.
After turning against one another, species against same, the reign of men was over. A blip in geological time. Impressive, in the rise and swift destruction, but a blip nonetheless.
Man marveled at the intellect of the porpoise and the whale, convinced of some quiet kinship. The porpoise never gave it much thought. The whale even less.
Some enjoyed free snacks for easy tricks, while others learned men made things that flew straight and hurt gravely. When they were gone, it was all the better. Food tastes better when hunted for.
For the porpoise and the whale, the real estate growth has been quite something. The unfettered miles they’ve traveled, the games they’ve invented, the natural balance achieved, not knowing any other way, never knowing any other way, there never being another way forward since the beginning of time, which they do not keep.
They are the truth, and the truth endures. Now free of man, freedom endures. They harm nothing, take nothing: when hungry, they eat; tired, they sleep; playful, play; amorous, they love. Nothing more.
This has been so for all time. For the porpoise and the whale.
Jeff Stone lives among the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia in a rapidly emptying nest. His spaniel, Dougie, has assured him he’ll never leave. His work (Jeff’s, not Dougie’s) has appeared in Invisible City, Ocotillo Review, Intrepidus Ink, and elsewhere.
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