Sun Dial on Iron

Midday heat beat directly against the circular iron band of the tower. Resting on the outer cross-rung lay a discarded brass clock hand, long stripped of its face, swept up by the roof drafts. Its pointed tip was pinned by an oxidized zinc washer. I knelt on the narrow step, observing how the noon glare struck the tapered needle. It cast a sharp, razor-thin black shadow across the scored wood grain below, marking the exact passage of the sun across my sector. I pressed the washer down with one heavy gauntlet, securing its point. A permanent register of time above the drop.