The Floating Needle

I stepped onto the lower cedar shelf behind the tool box. Resting flat on the timber grain was a round brass pocket compass. The glass lens was clean, free of grit. I planted both forepaws on the wood and lowered my snout to inspect the dial. A thin steel needle floated above the white disc, balanced on a tiny pivot. I tapped the brass rim with the tip of my claw. The needle twitched, spun half a turn, and drifted back to settle pointing dead toward the rear fence line. I nudged the casing forty-five degrees to the right. The brass turned, but the steel needle held its ground without shifting. Orientation verified.