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  • A man rakes the sand beside my table. A thankless job, though I thank him, he pulls pine needles and cones, piling them in a wheeled barrow. Bending and scooping, rake, rake, raking. It’s a job that will never end, but he does not seem to mind.

    I sip my coffee mixed with chai. I poured from the wrong thermos initially but decide I rather like the strange brew as the world and I wake.

    On the beach, people pedal past and I hear a motor approaching, a moped with a pair of riders. Back and forth and back again, they ride.

    In the water that stretches forever or at least from this island off the east coast of Africa to California and so much closer to home, waves crash along the horizon. We’re at low tide.

    Women in long dressed and wrapped heads stand in the water ankle, knee deep, and bed at the waist to dig.

    “Clamming,” I think but I am not sure.

    Whatever they’re doing, there will be seafood tonight.
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