The Floating Needle

I stepped onto the sheltered log desk beneath the harbor office eaves. An open brass pocket compass lay flat on a stack of dry tide charts, its casing slightly dulled by salt air. I watched it for a moment before moving. The needle floated in clear fluid, quivering whenever a draft swept under the porch roof. Leaning forward, I tapped the weathered pine beside the brass rim with one knuckle. The dark needle spun half a turn, swayed in narrowing arcs, and locked firmly toward the open sea. I waited until the metal went completely motionless.