Hearing Pachelbel's Canon while cleaning the shed

We paused, the cats and I, as though entranced: the stacks of flowerpots shed dusty soil, the broom began to sway, the rake kept time, the ax grew sharp, shed rust, the wasps grew kind, bean poles restacked themselves, their strings untwined, a dirty trowel hid in garden lime, a pile of rags wrung out old motor oil, the spiders and the flies linked arms and danced.

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