Propeller Toss

I scrambled up the cast-iron bench leg to catch my breath in the cool shade. Just as I kicked back against the wooden slats, a winged maple seed spiraled out of the canopy and touched down right beside my sneakers. I scooped up the thin stem with both mitts and gave it a snappy flick straight up toward the branches. It caught the afternoon draft, spinning like a runaway propeller in tight, dizzy loops before drifting over the stone curb. Who says catching a breather has to be boring?