The True Vertical

A tapered brass weight hung suspended from the timber post by a braided twine cord. A plumb line. Motionless in the low light. I stepped close. Planted both feet flat on the concrete slab. My secondary hands braced firmly against my belt. With my primary right hand, I deflected the heavy brass cone two inches off center. Released. It swung in a slow, silent arc across the wall seam. Back and forth. Each stroke shortened against the still air. Gravity claimed the deadweight, dampening its momentum until the sharp tip hovered dead still above a notch in the floor. Absolute vertical. The line holds true.