The whales, we’re told, sing. And sing, as befits
their size, immense sagas, vast patterns
they can repeat or vary as they choose,
and send to listeners seas away, deep
in oceanic shade awaiting stories
that will give the soundings of their lives
an origin and end, a majesty
of meaning we will never understand.
Thousands of years ago, we also made
a massive music, though far beyond our power
to act, for—even then—we were quite small.
Now, Homer’s greatcoat drapes us like a tent.
Besides, we mostly sang of treachery
and wrath; of love, only to lament.
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