little salt

 little salt

I open my eyes, my ears and my heart to the world around my old, gutted out school bus on a peach and tomato farm on Johns Island in South Carolina.

I see lightning bugs flashing.

I hear roosters crowing.

I feel a breeze blowing.

The corners of my mouth turn up a little and I smile a thank you to the new day.

One star is sitting by itself in the sky.

The estrella de la mañana.

The morning star.

It’s a symbol to me of all that’s beautiful in the world.

My abuelo is talking to a cow.

I sit up on my cot and look out the window.

From the side, his face is the shape of the curve in a summer crescent moon.

His body is a sinewy thin as the branches on the farthest reaches of the giant angel oak tree in the center of the Island.

His eyes are kind and tired, glowing softly like sunrise.

Every morning, he talks the cow into giving us a bucket full of milk.

He speaks gently to the cow.

“Ah, old friend. 

What would we do without you? 

Gracias for giving of yourself to us. 

Gracias for your kindness. 

Gracias.

You are a good vaca viejo.

You are a good old cow.

You are good.”

He leads the cow into a small pasture enclosed by a bamboo fence.

Then he leads her calf to her to nuzzle with her.

I close my eyes to the sound of the ping of the milk against the sides of the tin bucket.

I whistle that sound as I rise from my cot.

- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020