I find their empty shells,
paired rough wings half buried
in sand. Fallen angels.
Dirty grey caskets lined
with opalescent satin sheen.
Youngsters are spat,
past tense of spit; a rude name
for this ingenious creature
extracting minerals from water,
literally building itself.

Consider its small grey body,
consistency of mucus,
brine-soaked, amorphous,
all belly, all tongue, all heart,
producing nacre, smoothing grit
with layer after layer.
Only in this stretch of this river
do clime and chemistry combine
to promote creation
of colorful orbs
in shades of lilac to plum –
desirable San Angelo pearls.