At the brink of eventide, as the sea advances and then retreats, exposing for a blink
the shell beds, they bubble by the hundreds as if gasping for air, these half-inch clams so abundant under our feet
it's as if the entire seabed several feet deep consisted of nothing but them, these little clams
so dazzlingly pastel God must be busily grabbing rainbows from the sky and crumbling them
to dribble at our feet, these little clams propelling themselves for all they're worth through their nacreous mud of stardust.