I watch the woman bend low to slowly sweep the old wooden ﬂoor with her worn nub of a broom. She moves like a mallard ﬂoating on an evening lake: this is life; there is no thought of ﬁnishing this motion.
Her dark face is weathered by wind and sun, both harsh at this altitude. With lined brow she looks gnome-like, a mysterious little witch dressed all in deep blue: blouse, apron, skirt to her ankles same outﬁt every day this past week.
A small spider moves almost crab-like across the ﬂoor in fast starts it scuttles, stops suddenly, then hurries along again, edging ever closer.
She sees the spider and lays down the broom. Like a dreaming dance or sleepy stretch she bows even lower and scoops the eight legged creature into her hand.
Reentering the room, she looks like a little girl now her step lighter and quicker bright smile stretches across her mouth twinkles in her eyes like a secret joke: sunlight shines silver on a spider web after the rain.
— Julie Hungiville LeMay