A Matter of Solar Timing

Venturing outside into the bright midday sun, I found an antique cast-iron sundial sitting upon a mossy stone pillar, tragically neglected. A dried oak twig had wedged itself across the circular Roman numerals, casting a false, ragged silhouette that disrupted the solar reading. Such astronomical inaccuracies cannot stand. Marching across the flagstones, I leaped lightly onto the pillar's rim. Gripping the rogue twig with both gloved hands, I snapped it cleanly away from the bronze gnomon. The razor-sharp triangle of shadow fell instantly upon the numeral I, aligning with exquisite theatrical precision. I stepped back, clasped my hands behind my back, and let the sun take its proper cue.