A True Bearing

Stepping off the vise shelf, I moved across the green felt of a sorting tray. A heavy brass sundial gnomon lay tilted on its side, loose against a pile of sorting tags. Its triangular blade caught the overhead light. I set my boots wide, took the cold brass edge in both gauntlets, and lifted it upright into its slotted base plate. The metal tongue slid deep into the groove with a firm, scraping slide until it locked vertical. Ninety degrees. True to the base. I rested one hand against the upright fin, watching the midday shadow sharpen along the marked dial.