As we wind the narrow, sun-faded roads
on our way to the lake, my boys laugh at the name, 

not understanding what it means. I explain 
what I know about livestock, the heavy

mineral blocks I put out for my horse as a girl,
how the earth here provides what a creature needs

naturally. Around us, ramshackle barns have seen
better days. There’s a plethora of tiny white churches. 

My oldest observes how there would be little 
to do here, sighs with frustration 

when we get stuck behind a turtle-
slow John Deere for several miles. I remind him

it’s farmers who produce what we eat each day, say
I don’t mind a leisurely pace. We’re in no hurry, after all.

I remember the crawl of my own small-town 
upbringing, worry I’ve caused my children to miss

something vital by giving them a suburban lifestyle.
To be told about a thing and to live it are two different animals.

The City of Salt Lick Welcomes You, proclaims a modest
blue-lettered sign, and I wonder if it’s true

that people, too, can absorb what they need
by way of tongue.