I could clam for hours
off the dock of Grandma’s cottage.
Her island home, my launch pad
to the secret life and danger
of the sea.
Ben and Julia tread water beside me,
linking arms with the rowboat that leaves
flecks of green paint in our elbow creases.
We welcome the rising tide
while Amy stays inside, waiting to eat
the cherry stones raw. I am a hunter,
racing against the dark, so clever with my toes.
Seeing with limbs more swift than my cousin
or sister, I feel through dense sand and deep
water, cold tide lapping the back of my neck.
My mother hollers from the kitchen,
calling me to dinner, but I wrestle
between sunset and the bucket near full.
I am hungry to uncover the colony.
The ocean floor is thick and devouring,
but these toes can burrow
and find clams until my bones
cramp with cold.
The last of the sun is spreading
its umber light across the sound.
I steady myself on the rocking boat,
give my feet time to think,
and dive, maneuvering my fingers
past razor clams, securing the little necks
for our family’s blue ribbon chowder.