A Morning That Doesn't Wait to Dry

The water that got in yesterday was still there. The day won't begin unless I put them on, so I put them on as they were and stepped out the door. Today I decided not to wait for them to dry. I'm sitting on the mat beside the shoe cabinet, and the human puts on wet shoes and goes out. The door closes and the house goes quiet. That quiet after the door closed was the first dry air I felt that day. The mat holds for a long time a hollow shadow shaped like the wet mark. Even into evening that spot doesn't dry, and beyond the window at the end of the long hallway, the sun goes slowly down. The shadow does not move from its place.