It pulls me under, watching the sea lion
dive to the depths in search of squid
or fish. I feel its amphibious nature:
its liquid eyes speak
the language of ocean.
Tawny colored, its bulbous neck
with a proud mane, the male can weigh
as much as a bison! The females,
sleeker, are a third of the size.
Its fur prized by Alaskan natives for clothing,
its hide used to cover kayaks.
Solitary when swimming in seas
overfished of salmon, herring,
it must now hunt for less fatty fish,
pollack, mackerel, cod—
causing nutritional distress
affecting its ability
to feed its young.
Five decades ago,
a third of their population declined,
but is now making a comeback
along the cool coastal waters from
Ano Nuevo to Alaska,
endangered west to Japan,
threatened south of Alaska,
preyed upon by orcas, great whites, and man.
Boisterous, it roars instead of barks.
Gregarious, it congregates
on islands to breed and rest.
Amphibious, a mobility genius,
the way it rotates its flippers to walk on land—
the stellar Steller sea lion!
—
Terri Glass lives near the Smith River in northern California. Her recent poetry books include Being Animal from Kelsay Books and a chapbook of haiku, Birds, Bees, Trees, Love, Hee Hee from Finishing Line Press and her poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies. She is a grant recipient of Upstate California Creative Corps in which she created a series of poetry wall hangings about the endangered wildlife of her region. This poem was one in the series.
