A Matter of Navigation

The parlor grew stagnant, prompting me to step through the tall French casements toward the outer terrace. Outside, perched upon a mosaic stone pedestal, stood a weathered brass sundial overgrown with dry ivy. I extended a slender fingertip to brush away a desiccated tendril obscuring the roman numerals. Upon the dial's rim, someone had left an discarded orange peel curved into an arch, beside which lay a small plastic whistle. I rearranged the peel to align parallel with the gnomon's sharp shadow. It did not alter the hour, but the aesthetic order of the terrace was satisfactorily restored.