Just dust
The broom dances on the concrete, Swaying left and right, Back and forth, Unearthing the dirt off the ground, Building up a storm in the air, A brown storm we call dust.
Churning and turning and mixing, The dust moves in sync to the air, With the broom humming a beat, A beat that only the dust is familiar to.
A fest of a sort is going on, The sweeper unaware of, The scene unfolding beforehand. What goes on in her mind, Is as oblivious as the surrounding about her way.