The Shadow Hand

I padded through the low garden archway and trotted up to the round stone pedestal tucked in the grass. Bolted to its top was a circular brass sundial, wonderfully warm from the noon light. Stretching upward on my hind legs, I rested both front paws against the smooth, verdigris-tinted rim. A slender triangular blade stood upright in the middle, casting a crisp, dark wedge of shadow across the engraved numbers. A tiny dry beech leaf had settled right against the metal fin, shivering whenever the gentle breeze passed. I stayed very still, watching the cool line of shade divide the gleaming brass like a quiet clock made of sun.