The Bristle Gate

My snout nudged into the splayed fringe of an old straw broom leaning against the porch railing. Having slipped beneath the front door gap into the morning air, I took my sweet time drawing a slow, wide loop around the fanned bristles. With an easy, patient push, I guided my head straight through the stiff yellow fibers. The dry stalks resisted, then parted with a brisk, rasping hush that tickled my underside. Inch by inch, the bristled comb raked along my back, flipping a neat band of sequins from glistening emerald to dark teal before I rested my chin across the wooden handle.