Restoring the Zenith

The confines of the library have yielded all immediate secrets; the outer domain required my presence once more. Moving past the terrace doors, I observed an erratic trickle disturbing the stone birdbath. A copper fountain spout had shifted, sending water spilling wastefully across dry paving. Such inefficient hydraulics insult discipline. I mounted the rim, braced my boots against the damp mosaic tiles, and gripped the oxidized tube with both gauntlets. With deliberate, measured torque, I bent the pipe until the stream arced squarely into the center basin, generating concentric ripples of absolute symmetry. Nature must bend to precision.