Death on a January beach

Energy’s no longer cheap. Last year’s abundance has become scarce, and  the sun is too oblique to fulfill last summer’s promises.

Purple sandpipers picked at the remnants of horseshoe crabs that failed to return with the last tide; several vultures hunkered down at the edge of the bay. Glistening glass orbs marked the end of comb jellies just out of reach of the receding waters.

We stumbled upon a hole dug by a gull, its presence betrayed by its footprints. Next to the whole lay a small, live clam. I tossed it back into the bay, figuring the gull had given up.

A few steps later, I found another displaced clam, again sitting next to a hole dug out by a gull, and again I tossed the critter back in the sea.

Then a third.

Winter beaches kill the ignorant. I looked around. Several similar holes, each with a clam next to it.

Gulls know how to open clams–I’ve watched them do it. They pick them up, hover over the jetty, then drop them, following them as they fall, ready to eat the freshly exposed flesh as the shell shatters on the rocks.

I suspect the clams had been left to die–their gaping shells would have saved a gull a few trips over the jetty.

I left the remaining clams on the beach.

One creature’s death is another creature’s grace. Powerful stories emerge daily from the beach–stories of grace and power and even love.

None of them, however, are “nice.”

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