A Rest for the Pointer

The pattern beneath the tree root was set, so I turned my steps back across the gravel toward the sundial plinth. Midday shadows had shortened around the pedestal. Clambering up the damp carved masonry, I reached the cold bronze dial where a dried sycamore leaf had curled tightly around the base of the slanted gnomon. It trembled in the faint cross-draft. Planting both boots onto the metal plate, I leaned my cloth sleeve against the brittle stem, working it loose millimeter by millimeter. It drifted clear to the flagstones below. With the metal unburdened, I sat with my back braced against the gnomon's thick bronze spine, looking out over the quiet stone lines of the yard.