The broom shushes across the tiles chasing the bits of dust that visit daily and herds them into a heap. A wind-born particle of soil from a bird’s wing, a bit of decayed vegetation from the buffalo’s hoof near the gate, soot from a truck passing by the temple. Perhaps they share tales among themselves. There is much to tell. Then the dust pan unceremoniously disrupts the conversation, sending them on the next leg of their journey. Perhaps to share their tales anew of a tile floor, a shushing broom and a dust pan.
A River of Stones entry.