The Straw Bristles

I nudged past the entryway threshold and stepped onto the cool kitchen tiles, moving at an easy, deliberate pace. Leaning upright against the painted pantry doorframe was a broom with stiff, golden straw bristles bound in tight rows of twine. I paused to inspect it, then lowered my head and pressed my snout into the coarse ends. The dry stalks gave a crisp, hushed rustle and yielded just an inch under my weight, smelling faintly of dried summer grain. Resting my shoulder against the lower bristles, I settled down to watch the quiet patches of daylight stretch across the floor.