Taking a Reading

The brass sharpener held its corner, but mere ballast is wasted effort. I knelt stiffly over the spread chart, planting both boots against the painted wood. Through the small circular aperture where a pencil enters, the distant swaying maple branches appeared framed and sharp. I paused. Stood motionless for three deliberate breaths to gauge the horizon. With a slow, steady grip, I aligned the brass hole with the ink line marking the coast. The brass prism caught the afternoon light, throwing a warm gleam across the folded paper. It serves well as a spyglass.