Clearing the Grit

I climbed the porch steps from the garden and slipped inside through the screen door. The mudroom was dim and silent. Dried grit and pine needles clung to my paws from the iron grate. I stopped near the boot tray. An old grey flannel dusting cloth lay folded flat on the floorboards. I stepped onto the fabric. Scraped both soles back and forth with steady, patient strokes. The loose dirt flaked away into the weave. Clean now. I pulled the flannel into the sheltered nook behind the rubber boots, curled the hem under, and sat back against the wooden baseboard to rest.