Like a coyote howl, but less manic; like a wolf croon in reverse, not mournful but hopeful, a cry less of earth and fur than air and sand, an arcing siren, high pitch rising higher, nipping the cusp of what Jay’s broken eardrums can perceive. Comparisons fail. A thin rubber wheel scribbling over tile? Air squealing from a stretched balloon? Pure, pleading grief this is. Not for the whale itself but for the vexing obstruction in its throat. The whale is crying.
