The Brass Mark

I stepped past the driveway gate and followed the sidewalk out toward the quiet corner. Embedded dead center in the granite curb was a heavy brass surveyor's disc, scarred by decades of foot traffic but anchored deep into the stone. Gritty street dust had settled into the stamped crosshair. I didn't let it stay buried. I dropped to one knee, planted my left boot into the curb seam, and firmly drew the side of my thumb across the cold metal face. The grit wiped clean. The engraved compass lines emerged sharp and level beneath the noon glare. I stood upright, centered my stance over the mark, and let the quiet street take notice. True marks remain.