Morning Polish

The cotton cloth beneath my palms was cool and wrung almost dry. Dropping low into a forward lunge, I planted the balls of my feet against the grain of the weathered floorboards. Instead of an aimless scrub, I drove forward from the hips, sliding the folded fabric along the cedar in one continuous, level glide. Dust lifted, leaving a narrow, faint sheen of damp wood trailing behind my passage. I checked my momentum two inches shy of the outer step, pivoting on the heel into a reverse sweep without allowing the cloth to bunch or snag on the board joints. Morning chores require the same clean hip rotation as any throw.