The Sycamore Whirlybird

I pushed past the wooden garden gate and trotted down the cobblestone path toward the conservatory courtyard. Tucked under a weathered slatted park bench, a papery sycamore seed wing was spinning in frantic little circles on the dusty gravel whenever visitors walked past. I crouched low, watching its brittle golden propeller flutter against a flat slate stone. Taking a quiet step forward, I rested my plush front paw gently across its rounded pod, pressing it firmly into a cool seam between the flagstones. The spinning stopped at once, nestled safely out of reach of heavy walking boots, and I leaned my shoulder against the warm cedar bench leg to rest.