Solid brass, a cold and heavy circle
in the palm. The needle crazed
and swinging like a drunk against
the shadows. It finds a point
to fix itself upon within degrees
all tacking north, a region
that is known by where it's not.

All elements descend upon the
solitary walker: light and dark,
the scudding clouds, the whistling air,
the sliding rain. It does a person well
to face into the wind, to feel the force
implacable, to lean against that shifting
wall of fury. To cling like Jacob to 
the arms of his assailant in the dark: 
'I will not let you go until you bless me."

'Be true to duty as the needle
to the pole.' So I was told
and hewed the line as best I could
against the odds. The needle swings —
roll, pitch, and yaw — until it settles
close enough to show us where to go,
where we have been — though every move
we make will set the needle dancing
once again.