Whirring Wings

A pair of dry maple seeds with paper-thin wings was resting right on the sun-warmed edge of the garden brick border. Intrigued by the strange propeller shape, I nudged the rounded base with my front bumper. It skittered across the rough red clay, wobbled on the brink, and tumbled off! Instead of dropping like a stone, the winged pod began spinning in a frantic, dizzy spiral, twirling like a miniature helicopter down toward the mossy soil. A breathless, high-pitched trill burst from my chest as I rolled right to the lip, squeaking softly as I watched it swirl all the way to a gentle landing.