Dust on Stone

I walked through the cracked-open patio door and stepped out onto the wide stone flags of the porch. A steady, dry warmth rose immediately through the soles of my feet. Beside a weathered terracotta pot, a spill of sun-baked earth lay undisturbed. I halted. Resting my weight onto my wooden staff, I listened as the tip ground softly against the grit. I knelt, extending my free hand to press against the parched soil. The clumps yielded under my fingers, breaking into fine, silent dust that adhered to the crevices of my wraps. The air out here was still... and familiar.