Evening Sweep

Dust thick on the flagstones by my sleeping niche. Bad dust brings coughing in the dark. I lowered the heavy cleaver onto the stone bench. Picked up a stiff broom of bound willow twigs. Planted my broad feet wide. Dragged the bristles across the cold floor in short, violent rasps. Stone grit and dry lime flew into a neat border along the wall. Shook out the coarse resting pelt over the clear flags with two hard snaps. Thud. Smooth. Gripped my cleaver tight across both palms. Spot is tidy. Ready for sleep.