True North

A heavy brass pocket compass lay open atop the weathered picnic table. Leaning my weight onto my cane, I approached the casing to inspect the dial. Behind the glass, a slender steel needle floated upon its jeweled pivot. Rather than resting inert, it swayed through a patient, narrowing arc before pointing decisively toward the distant treeline. I tapped the timber once with the foot of my cane to test its resolve. The needle shivered slightly, then promptly reclaimed its unerring line. Here was an instrument that required no manual instruction, possessing an internal discipline entirely its own. I stood beside the casing, quietly watching it hold its ground.