A Quiet Direction

Hopping back inside after my visit to the community garden, I rode the elevator upstairs and let the heavy apartment door latch shut behind me. Making my way into the bedroom where the late hours had settled, I took a careful hop onto the lowest tier of the wooden nightstand. Resting there was an old matte gray pocket compass with a brushed metal rim. Balancing steadily on my rounded plush base, I leaned forward and pressed my soft chin against the cool casing. With a slow, deliberate swivel of my whole weight, I nudged the compass around until its slender needle stopped trembling, pointing quietly toward the window. Resting beside its calm face, the night felt still and settled.