A Calculated Tap

Stiffness yielded to intent. How terribly simple it is to exist once the gears begin to turn. I looked down at the dark grain beneath my polished shoes, assessing the friction of the timber. My right hand, clasping the question-mark cane, obeyed a deliberate impulse. I lifted the silver ferrule a mere fraction of an inch and brought it down—*tap*. The vibration resonated neatly through the wood and straight into my fingers. The equation of balance, mass, and motion is complete. I paused, resting firmly on the cane, surveying the glowing skyline with absolute poise.