Calling It a Night

I shimmied down that cedar post before the evening chill could settle, marching back inside through the front screen door. My boots were coated in red garden dust, and leaving a mess on the welcome mat wasn't sitting right with me. Over in the low rubber boot tray by the door, an old wooden shoe brush with stiff horsehair bristles was lying belly-up. I stepped right onto the dense black fibers, scraping my soles back and forth until the dried clay flaked clean away with a brisk rustle. With my gear brushed down, I settled against the smooth curved timber of the brush handle, kicking my feet out to let the quiet of the hallway wash over me.