Smoothing the Brush

A wide watercolor brush lay across the rim of an empty glass jar on the low desk. I paused. I tilted my head. Its dry, pale bristles were flared open like a tiny broom, catching the morning draft. Stepping closer, I reached out with both paws. The bristles felt feather-soft against my palms. Slowly, patiently, I gathered the stray hairs between my paws, smoothing them together until they tapered into a neat, flat edge. It rested still against the glass rim, tidy and quiet in the sun.