Phuoc stepped back and surveyed the field, taking in the neat, orderly rows of plantings. Slowly, a smile peeked out from under his trunk. It was finished.
Phuoc and his father had put a lot of work into cleaning up this rocky plateau. Phuoc’s forehead felt raw from the trees he’d pushed over, and his tusks ached from prying up troublesome stones. His father hadn’t wanted to plant here – too much work to bother transforming the heights into rice paddies. But Phuoc, well, Phuoc knew that good topsoil waited just beneath the rough. Rain loved this elevated plateau, so water would be no problem. And Phuoc felt sure that the old growth yearned to fall away before his tusks.
Turning his gray bulk toward the farmhouse, Phuoc recalled fondly his father’s reaction. When it had become clear that Phuoc had been right, his father had abruptly stopped working. The old bull had grunted, muttered something about the likelihood of a bad winter, and started obsessing about the last few rocks interrupting the rows. Phuoc’s mother, enjoying a stroll under her pink parasol, had looked back at him and winked.
Phuoc had wanted to trumpet with delight. Even if the stubborn bull never said it, Phuoc’s father was proud. Nonetheless, Phuoc didn’t expect a chance for an “I told you so,” anytime soon. If pushed to concede, his father would just hem, haw, and nitpick the new field and terraces. Like they say, elephants never admit.