A Watch on the Compass

The wind off the street carries grit over the balcony rail, but the tether holds. I climbed to the corner junction where the weathered cedar meets an old iron bracket. Wedged into a deep fissure of the wood, I found a discarded clear plastic lens from an old bottle cap. Kneeling beside it, I tilted the curved scrap against the afternoon sun, directing a sharp bead of light down into the dark groove below. It revealed an ancient, rusted screw head scored with a cross. I rested my palm against the warm timber, calculating its grip. A solid bearing point established for surveying the yard below.