The grey pulse in the water
off Culburra Beach early Friday morning
is a throb of dolphins
bellying at the surface from beneath.
They burst through to silver air
flattened under clouds
and the light rain that builds
the ocean there. I call you—
you, with your belly heavy
with our daughter we’ve not
met yet, as she wrestles into herself—
and we stand on the wooden bench
by the rosemary and tea-trees and watch
the dolphins slide by,
lubricated in their element—
social, at play, bearing north
through the last days of this summer,
flecks of mercury the pale
low morning sun slips shade on.
Dark tongues of mammal,
they flick along, fluid,
as our baby’s heartbeat ticks
through a doppler monitor—
a rapid crash of broken waves.
It swims by so fast, this week
by the sea: it pools into the end
of April, a slick passage for all of us
into some new world, vast and new.