A Measure of Weight

I departed the house after midday, walking past the tree-shaded avenues toward the civic square to inspect the courthouse plaza. Upon a low stone balustrade, a heavy brass pocket compass had been left resting haphazardly on its beveled hinge, trapping a dry autumn fern frond underneath. Such neglect dulls precision. Planting my boots squarely on the smooth limestone, I grasped the grooved brass rim with both gauntlets. With steady leverage, I freed the trapped frond, letting it drop to the stone below. I turned the casing until the etched rose sat flush against the balustrade edge, pointing true north toward the courthouse doors.