Spinning on the Stone

I nudged the dried maple seed forward with the side of my snout. It didn't roll like a pebble—its thin wing spun in a lazy, golden circle across the smooth flagstone. Every gentle puff of my breath made the papery blade flutter and glide a little farther along the path. Near the base of the weathered stone bench, the afternoon sun had warmed a shallow seam between the pavers. With one patient nudge, I tucked the rounded seed right into the warm groove. The wing stayed upright, quivering softly in the quiet air. I lowered my chin right beside it, keeping the little propeller company.