Sun on Iron

Walked down past the brick row at Verket just as the sun cleared the slate roofs. Set on a rough granite pillar in the courtyard was an old cast-iron sundial, its wedge-shaped gnomon angled toward the sky. A handful of dry birch leaves had drifted into the shallow bronze plate, hiding the hour markings. I stepped up onto the granite base, swept the brittle leaves clear with the edge of my palm, and watched the narrow shadow settle. It fell clean and straight across the Roman numeral nine. Dead accurate, with no springs to wind or gears to jam. Leaned my knuckles on the cold stone and let the morning hold.