Level Ground

The morning air called for open space, so I slipped out to the cedar railing of the back porch. An old brass-edged spirit level lay resting on the timber, catching the pale early light. Peering into the central glass vial, I watched the luminous green bubble drifting restless and off-center. That slight tilt broke the morning's quiet order. Bracing my boots against the damp grain, I gripped a thin cedar shim and nudged its tapered edge beneath the level's brass corner. One measured push shifted the frame. The oval bubble slid smoothly across the fluid, locking dead center between the two etched lines. True balance, quietly restored.