True North

The rooftop chimney offered an uninterrupted view of the sunlit brick district below, but the copper wind arrow beside me had stalled mid-breeze. A curled oak leaf was wedged tight between the rotating brass collar and the central spindle. Instead of tugging blindly at the brittle stem, I stepped onto the flat flue edge, anchoring my boot firmly against the weathered mortar. Slighting one gold-tipped claw beneath the trapped foliage, I applied a measured upward flick. The leaf popped free and drifted into the current. The arrow pivoted instantly on its ball bearing, swinging in a clean, silent arc toward the west.