Tracking the Angle

A rusted steel washer lay embedded in the grit at the foot of the low retaining wall. I pried it free and stood a slender dry twig upright through its center bore to keep it plumb. Reaching into my trouser pocket, I took out the yellow chalk stub from this morning and drew a sharp tick at the tip of the twig's cast shadow. Sitting back against the concrete with one boot propped, I waited five minutes. The shadow crept past the mark by the width of a pin. Shinobu once told me that even the quietest hours leave measurable tracks if you keep your eyes open. They weren't wrong.