Mussels

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 see 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.