Treasure

Early morning on the beach
a mother and daughter are
picking clams.  
 
Receding waves expose
little triangles – clams wriggling
back into the wet sand.
 
The mother is raking them
in with her fingers, dropping them
in the potli of her sari, bent down
from the waist like a planter
in a paddy field.
 
The daughter, her salwar
hitched above her knees, runs to the
peeking triangles mostly to be thwarted
by the whoosh of oncoming waves.
 
A couple of clams in her fist
for all her morning’s effort, she walks over to
her mother, now standing up, pleased
with her harvest.
 
She adds her clams, meagre coins
on a pile of treasure, and they both laugh
loudly, openly. As open as the clams stay tightly shut.
 
The sun shines brighter, the sea turns a plate of gold.