Winged Descent

I marched outward to Square Colbert, stepping across the sunlit gravel terrace. Near the base of a sycamore, a dry winged seed pod caught my attention among the fallen leaves. I retrieved the two-bladed pod, testing the rigidity of its fibrous vane between my metal fingertips. Ascending the tiered limestone balustrade, I held the seed out over the open drop. When I released my gauntlet, it did not plunge. The wing caught the calm air, spinning in a rapid, disciplined gyration before settling softly upon the pathway below. Even without gears, flight follows an exact line.