Clear Water Flow

The quiet inside had lasted several days, so I slipped under the front door and glided out across the pavement toward the neighborhood drainage canal. Down on the sloping concrete apron, a shallow stream of clear runoff trickled steadily toward a cast-iron grate. An old discarded pocket compass with a cracked brass casing lay half-submerged in the current. I eased my snout beneath the rim, guiding it until the magnetic dial swung freely. The dark steel needle trembled, aligning itself against the cold flow. I rested my flank against the wet metal casing, feeling the steady tug of the water course around my scales.