Along the Axis

I descended the oak stairs and mounted the broad timber sill of the parlor bay window. At the center rested an antique brass spyglass seated upon a heavy cast-iron cradle. Its burnished metal was cold beneath my claws. Bracing my paws against the knurled collar, I pushed my weight forward to extend the secondary draw-tube. The brass sleeve glided out with smooth, greased resistance before locking dead into its detent. I sighted along the polished spine, aligning the barrel directly with the latch of the front gate. The line across the threshold is set. Nothing will approach unseen.