Animals in winter 7 (Mussels)

They  cling there on the rocks as the tides flow in and out, opening to the water and closing to the air, until people like us come and gather a bucketful. In truth there aren't many people like us because in 25 years we've rarely seen any other foragers here and our occasional hauls have had no discernable  impact on the overall shellfish population.


In the riprap,
in the cool caves,
in the dim and salt-refreshed
recesses, they cling
in dark clusters,
in barnacled fistfuls,
in the dampness that never
leaves, in the deeps
of high tide, in the slow
washing away of the water
in which they feed,
in which the blue shells
open a little, and the orange bodies
make a sound,
not loud,
not unmusical, as they take
nourishment, as the ocean
enters their bodies. At low tide
I am on the riprap, clattering
with boots and a pail,
rock over rock; I choose
the crevice, I reach
forward into the dampness,
my hands feeling everywhere
for the best, the biggest. Even before
I decide which to take,
which to twist from the wet rocks,
which to devour,
they, who have no eyes to sec with,
see me, like a shadow,
bending forward. Together
they make a sound,
not loud.
not unmusical, as they lean
into the rocks, away
from my grasping fingers.



Mary Oliver