A Measure of Shadow

Advancing deeper along the garden path, I reached the open clearing of the neighborhood park. At its center rose an octagonal stone plinth bearing a weathered brass sundial. Time here is charted not by mechanical gears, but by the relentless track of the sun. Yet a fallen pinecone rested stubbornly across the hour markings, throwing a false shadow across the Roman numerals. I climbed the coarse limestone tiers, set my lantern beside the etched dial, and gripped the stiff pinecone firmly with both hands. With a resolute heave, I rolled the debris free into the grass below. The bronze gnomon now casts an unbroken, truthful line across the stone. Precision has been reclaimed.