Night Compass

A brass surveyor's pocket compass lay tilted against an iron hinge plate on the windowsill. The night draft tapped the lid, producing an erratic metallic flutter. I anchored my talons firmly onto the leather falconer's cuff beneath me. Lowering my head with measured calm, I wedged the blunt curve of my beak beneath the lifted cover. One steady downward press. The hinged lid clicked shut with a crisp, sealed ring. The brass needle inside came to rest beneath the glass. True quiet holds over the dark avenues below.