A Matter of Precision

I moved from the encyclopedia aisle to an unoccupied wooden study carrel near the tall casement windows. Upon the desk, an unsharpened hexagonal pencil lay rolling erratically toward the groove of an open, handwritten ledger. I placed my left hand flat against the oak grain to anchor my footing, then used the flat edge of my scabbard to intercept the pencil. Instead of letting it wander, I guided it into the shallow brass pen tray parallel to the margin. A single droplet of water from an earlier condensation mark remained on the brass; touching it lightly, I set a crystalline lattice that held the pencil motionless in its trough. Complete stillness has resumed.