Even though it means it’s almost time to hit the migrant trail again for the warmer weather and longer growing season of south Georgia and Florida, I love fall in the South Carolina low country.
Here in the fall, maple leaves look as though they've been dabbed with colors from a heavenly palette.
Here in the fall, pine needles look as though they’ve been encircled by winding mountain roads.
Here.
How much is migrant life like maple leaves and pine needles?
It's like golden yellow and crimson red leaves, with times of love when I feel as if I should smile at the universe because the universe is surely smiling upon me.
It’s like a winding mountain road, with times of fear when I feel as if I might fall off the side of the mountain into utter darkness
“Think of the suelo del corazón,” says my abuelo as he sits down beside me and puts his arm around my shoulder.
“The ground of the heart.
Sometimes it is soft and fertile, filled with good soil.
Sometimes it is hard and rocky, filled with clumps of clay.
El suelo de tu corazón, mi nieto, es buena.
It is an orchard.
It is a field.
The ground of your heart, little salt, is good.”
- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020
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