A Weighted Line

The recovered iron plumb bob lay heavy in my palm. It possessed true vertical mass, but an anchor needs suspension. In the damp grass near the sundial pedestal, I gathered three discarded strands of fibrous plant stem. Crouching low, I peeled the tough outer rinds away using the curved edge of my wrist blade. I braided the green fibers into a three-ply cord, pulling each twist taut against my thigh until it held without fraying. Threading the supple weave through the rusted eyelet of the iron weight, I cinched it tight with a square hitch. Sighting down the suspended metal teardrop, it hung perfectly plumb over the earth. A low, gravelly click rolled in my chest.