The dust which changed address

An original literary non-fiction-style account of trying to dust a bookcase with a feather duster.

The duster looked like a cheerful answer to a problem I preferred not to examine. Its feathers spread from the handle in a soft, extravagant fan. I waved it above the bookcase and felt, briefly, that I had brought an unusually light piece of equipment to a serious task.

The first sweep disturbed a grey line along the shelf. In the slant of afternoon light, the line became a small floating population. It rose past the books and spread into the room with none of the obedience I had expected from something I had just cleaned. I followed it with the duster, which merely introduced another disturbance.

I had imagined a simple arrangement: dusty shelf, useful feathers, clean shelf. The light supplied a less flattering account. Every confident movement produced fresh evidence against me. A few particles settled on the dark handle itself, quietly including my equipment in the problem it had been brought to solve.

I put the duster down and fetched a cloth. Behind me, the room began to look clear again. This was encouraging until I noticed that the sunlight had moved away from the shelf. I stood with the cloth in my hand, unable to decide whether I had made progress or lost my witness. On the bookcase, the feathers remained perfectly still, looking innocent of all responsibility.

How does the writer use language to make the narrator's attempt at cleaning humorous?