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Clam rakes catch on blackberry briars and full buckets bang about our knees on the way back from picking rock oysters and collecting cockles off the tide flats.

Crossing the cow pasture, our boots imprint earth where moles have pushed up dark history in the grass.  Small midden pile tells, studded with fragments…mussels, clams, oysters… from Tillamook camps.

With driftwood, we heat rocks and at sunset we steam clams and oysters, pick out sweet meat and feast on shellfish. Tossing the shells aside on middens of our own.

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