The last vaquita will know her fate,
and won’t bother to stop to hunt, to sleep,
nor even to mate—with whom would she
get it on even if she were to desire to? She will
merely embark on her final and solitary journey
across the Pacific waters, with no destination
in sight. In the daytime she’ll loll in the emerald
sunlight, munching a beakful of trout or grunt
or squid—whichever floats or drifts her way—
and when dusk unfurls its tinsel gillnet
over the darkening deep, she’ll carry on
across the dimming lagoons, unhurried,
for there will be nothing to hurry toward.
She’ll leave the shallow cloister of the bay
and make her way beyond its seagrass beds,
her form dipping and rising, dipping and rising
like a crescent grey sliver, weaving and diving
until it disappears somewhere over the horizon.
She may pause to feel the day’s last rays
on her fin. She may pause, however briefly,
to turn around, to make sure it’s truly over.
