Kale and his young classmate, David, watch the crossing of the whales during the final harvest of the season.
Kale kept a close watch on the moon. Uncle Jon rarely spoke of his father. What he said was short, leaving Kale to fill in the blanks and Kale had done this and now, as he was a man learning to become a warrior, there were no more blanks left to fill. Under the final sunsoaked moon of the harvest Kale wished his father were somewhere safe. He wished him a safe return.
The whales came.
The first call spread across the fields like a rolling wave. The workers stopped. They looked up. The first whale passed over the harvest moon black and distant and small like a child’s shadow puppet on a dimlit wall. The whales grew bigger and the last and largest of the pod eclipsed the moon and for the animal’s crossing Kale sat in a well of pitch and a well of held breath through which time could not pass. Kale the warrior, Kale the explorer, the Masamune sleeping its sleep and dreaming its millennial dreams. The whales finished crossing and the moon and time returned to them and Kale spoke quietly.
"Amazing, isn’t it?"
Little David didn’t respond. He was still looking up at the moon, mouth open.
Somewhere, the biggest whale called. The fields turned in that rolling wind and the gate swung open, squealing like a meek farewell.