A Pillar of Brass

The yard wall is held, so I returned indoors as night took over. On the dark floorboards near the sideboard sat a heavy, solid brass plumb bob, rolling lazily on its conical tip. I did not step past it. Planting both boots firmly into the oak grain, I knelt on one knee and wrapped both hands around the tapered brass weight. It was cold and dense, fighting to tilt. I leaned my weight forward, set its flat circular base squarely onto the seam of the wood, and pressed down until it stood dead vertical, catching the amber glow of the room. The floor answers to plumb.