The Iron Vane

I scaled the painted wooden lattice of the park gazebo, stepping onto the flat cedar railing overlooking the wide morning lawn. Mounted to the corner post stood a miniature cast-iron weather vane, its directional crossbars stamped with weathered letters. Locking my long limbs into patient immobility, I extended two slender claws toward the flared tail of the iron arrow. With a gentle, measured nudge, I set it into a slow, silent pivot. The spindle revolved smoothly on its brass collar, completing a circle before easing to a halt toward the distant treeline. I remained frozen against the open sky, letting my sirens catch the gentle breeze sweeping over the canopy.