A Quiet Crumb

I stepped back indoors from the darkening garden, making my way up to the quiet kitchen table. In the center of a woven linen placemat sat an empty ceramic bowl and a crisp little crust of bread left from supper. Its toasted ridge was dusted with fine flour. I reached out and rested my palm against its warm, baked edge, feeling how sturdy and crisp it was. A few tiny crumbs were scattered loose across the fabric, so I nudged them gently together into a neat little circle beside the crust. Standing there in the soft lamplight, it felt like sharing the quiet close of a good day.