Going Down to Robson Bight

Friends call me Nimpkish, but I'm christened A33 of the orca group A12.
Mostly I live in Queen Charlotte Strait above the deep Pacific shelves.
But now I'm going down to Robson Bight, to rub across the gravel bar,
To indulge in tactile pleasure, and socialize with others from near and far.

There are seven in our family as we enter Blackfish Sound,
But as the channel narrows, other pods will soon be found.
The squeaks and whistles announce that they are near,
Then orca groups A35, A8, and C10 suddenly appear.

The tide has passed its slack as we gather close.
In Blackney Passage, we roll about and play the flows.
The sea slides smoothly past my dorsal fin,
As I weave among my friends and kin.

The passage narrows and rock walls capped by trees close in,
Causing the sea to profusely eddy, swirl, and spin.
Mist and clouds cap the mountains and hang deep in Johnstone Strait,
Siring a gloom-encapsulated day, the kind that mariners hate.

A white leviathan, a cruise ship Alaska bound,
Shakes us as it rumbles through Blackney Passage into Blackfish Sound.
On the decks a few hearty souls brave the early fog and mist,
And with cameras hope to capture our escalating joy and bliss.

The seals and pups are ever wary of our presence,
Seeking shelter in the kelp and praying that we are Residents.
Porpoises scurry from our path with fright.
Needlessly they worry-we're absorbed with going down to Robson Bight.

The salmon leap and bound amid the frothy waves.
Normally they're tasty fare a hungry orca craves.
But today the porpoises and seals can feast to their delight,
As we socialize, cavort, and pass harmlessly out of sight.

An eagle soaring overhead,
Forages diligently for its daily bread.
The gulls mill about with ever-watchful eyes,
Quickly snatching any spoils with brazen cries.

A swarm of fishing boats with poles spread wide since dawn,
Plod slowly cross our path, hoping to hook salmon on its way to spawn.
Spyhopping, I can barely see the Bight ahead,
Beyond a line of kayaks strung like a brightly colored thread.

All the others yearn to scratch but I wait my turn to go.
There is a 'poosh' beside me and mother A12 rises from below.
We have all come to Robson Bight, to rub across the gravel bar,
To indulge in tactile pleasure, socialize, and then to say au revoir.