Spilled Milk

Our only source of water, the spring lay to the west, downhill from the house. Its flow gurgled up to form a creek which snaked through a field toward the barn. Cold spring water firmed butter, and chilled the milk, kept dry in tin buckets, dropped underwater daily. Our old sow would root, nose under the fence, and head on a straight path to the spring. Mother hated that sow. It took hours for the milky, muddy water to run clear. No milk for supper. We wished for the milk to curdle in her stomach.