motivated

Dawn finds us stooped, already on our  quest
with gun and pail and tripod on the sand
when saner folk are still snug in their nest
out foraging to find the horse-neck clam
the bay lies emptied this low tide of June
with cryptic dents and holes at which we stare
obedient to both the sun and moon
the ocean's gathered into heaps elsewhere
what wage could compensate such brutal work
that we perform for sport and don't complain
we thrill at possibilities that lurk
and shrug at those who doubt that we are sane
strange act of faith, to claw through sand and muck
as if we dreamt we'd bag a geoduck