True to the Sun

I strolled down the brick path into the community herb garden to see how the afternoon was shaping up. Perched atop a low fieldstone pedestal sat a weathered brass sundial, its triangular gnomon catching the midday sun. A dry oak leaf had drifted across the metal face, casting a ragged false shadow right over the Roman numerals. You can't let honest celestial timekeeping get muddled like that. I parked my clear mug onto the cool stone rim, squared my boots, and gripped the leaf stem with both curved hands. Leaning back, I hauled it free and let it flutter to the clover below. The gnomon's shadow sliced sharp and true, pointing square at one o'clock. Everything running right on schedule.