Red topped cane towered above the boy. The bright sun shot flashes of light off the edge of his knife as he swung it in an easy rhythm. Quickly the cane pile grew and the boy moved on.

The air was cool, but sweat covered his body and stung his forearms as he loaded the last of the batch on the wagon.

First a gentle lurch, then the mill groaned and creaked, and settled in with a raspy hum. The boy measured the armloads of cane feeding the mill with the same easy rhythm as before.

The raw juice exploded from the stalks as they threaded between the rolls. First a trickle, then a steady stream of sticky green juice filled the holding tank.

Even as the mill ground to a halt, the pump moved juice up the hill into the settling tank. Now the Sorghum Maker took charge, stirring and churning the juice, his thick arms locked tight to the hoe. The boy stood ready with more clay.

Cautiously the Sorghum Maker worked to drain the last of the milky white juice into the pan. The boy carried armloads of wood, as steam billowed high, blocking the mid-morning sun.

Golden brown, the syrup rolled like biscuits from the center to the edge of the pan, sending the hot sweet smell of Sorghum into the air. The Sorghum Maker alternately skimmed, then paddled the thickening brew. Eyeing the foam on the paddle–the threads…the flakes…”Let’s take it off,” he said. The boy moved quickly to shut down the fire.

The day had begun.