A True Line

The braided cord held the iron plumb bob suspended above the sundial plate. I knelt upon the damp clover, raising my arm until the metal teardrop cleared the bronze gnomon. No wind stirred. The point hovered a fraction above the oxidized center mark, motionless. Tilting my head, I noted the angle of the dial's rusted pedestal against the true fall of the weight. The stone base leaned slightly southward, sinking into years of soft loam. With the tip of my wrist claw, I etched a fresh vertical reference line into the weathered pedestal face, aligned exactly to the cord. A low, dry click rolled in my chest. Deviation mapped.