Ballad of the Gorge, We tried— God, we tried— and it feels like waste.

      Beached orca in B.C. dies despite life-saving efforts

 Ballad of the Beginning

We started with our hands,
hauling garbage from the Gorge.
Tires, barrels, shopping carts—
rusted offerings to the tide.

We dove in black water,
came up with lungs burning,
arms straining against
the weight of a city’s neglect.

Each pile on the shore—
a strange monument.
Proof that someone cared enough
to pull the waste back out.

---

Ballad of the Lessons

We wrote letters.
We spoke in halls with bad coffee,
slides flickering of eelgrass and outfalls.

We told them—
sand lance need clean sand,
chinook need sand lance,
the orcas are starving.

We drew arrows on maps,
pointed to storm drains,
named the chemicals—
copper, zinc, PAHs, PCBs,
endocrine disruptors, fecal trails.

They nodded.
They clapped.
Then they paved another parking lot.

---

Ballad of the Trying

Education was our hope.
We went to schools,
showed kids jars of oily water,
taught them the word “watershed.”

We thought—
they will grow, they will lead,
they will not repeat
their parents’ mistakes.

But the pipes kept running.
The rainbow sheens never stopped.
And the orcas got thinner,
even as the classrooms filled with drawings
of whales and salmon.

---

Ballad of the Waste

Years became decades.
We stacked up reports,
filed submissions,
sent letters signed in good faith.

We built programs,
we built partnerships,
we built hope.

And still the sand lance spawn
 in poisoned sand.
Still the chinook grow hollow.
Still the orcas starve.

Our labour
a kind of devotion,
but devotion doesn’t cleanse
the heavy metals from the tide.

We tried—
God, we tried—
and it feels like waste.