The Black Wave

She rises not with a splash,

but with silence —

a shadow cleaving the silver skin of the sea.

A breath. A plume. Then nothing.

Just the knowledge

that she is there.

Watching.

She does not need to roar.

The ocean bends to her presence.

Waves hesitate at her approach,

fish scatter without being told.

She is language,

but of muscle and memory.

The story carved in every current

belongs to her.

Others hunt.

She orchestrates.

Not brute force,

but precision.

A flick of her tail turns panic into silence.

A ripple becomes ruin

for the seal basking too long

or the herring spinning too slow.

She moves in pod and pattern.

Not alone,

but never unsure.

Their calls echo through fathoms,

a choir of minds,

plotting, planning, surviving

as one.

She has no throne,

no crown,

no coral scepter.

Only skin like stormclouds

and teeth made of inevitability.

And still — she plays.

Breaches just to kiss the wind.

Spins because the sea is hers to dance with.

She teaches her young

how to hunt,

how to wait,

how to listen.

Not just a killer.

A guardian.

A matriarch.

An echo of what the ocean respects.

And fears.

So when you look across the waves

and the sun seems too calm,

remember:

beneath it,

the black wave waits.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Only certain.

Always certain.