Cleaning the Spikes

The street went dark, signaling that outdoor trench training was over. I carried my round acorn cap and stomped back up the three giant concrete steps to the front porch. My white gloves were completely caked in dried brown dirt from digging. A guardian cannot strike with muddy fists. I dropped to my knees on the bristly coir doormat and scrubbed both spiked knuckles back and forth against the stiff brown fibers. Scritch-scratch! Puffs of brown dust flew into the air until the white cloth showed through again. I set the acorn cap down beside the door frame like a solid sentry bowl and folded my arms for night watch.