Spinning Pins

The weaver is folding laundry.

Deep into the basket, not off the top, she reaches and grabs one shirt or one napkin, plucks its corners strategically, whips it precisely, moves her pinching grip to its centerline, lets it fall against itself, rotates and repeats, then piles it with a gentle thump on a stack of likes.

It's raining for the first time in seven weeks.

She stands in a small, ground-level room, one shoulder to the single window, her gaze landing halfway between the small towers of cloth on the table and the whitewashed wall.

The weaver thinks of the tulips, months past blooming but still able to take the water where they lie, wide-eyed, in the ground. She thinks of the rain falling right into the puzzle of the dry creekbed. And it must be washing dust off such small things, broken bricks, iron pegs, wood shavings left in the grass where someone was making a bucket.