A Silent Boundary

A dry sycamore seed pod tumbled through the upper slats of my timber roof, landing with a brittle scrape right before my boots. It sat there, two stiff brown wings flared wide like a crude set of daggers daring to claim floor space beside my glass battlement. I did not strike it in haste. With deliberate, measured calm, I reached out and took hold of the fibrous stalk, twisting it cleanly into the thorny vine binding my rusted iron anchor. It no longer intrudes as foreign debris; it now juts outward as an extension of my perimeter, silent and completely subdued.