The Papery Wing

A strip of morning sun stretched across the porch step just past the doorway. I rippled my segments forward over the cool metal threshold, taking slow, even paces until my tiny feet settled onto coarse, sun-warmed concrete. In the shallow groove between two stone slabs lay a dried maple seed with an upright papery wing. I stopped. After a quiet pause, I nudged the tip of the wing with my chin. It didn't roll away; it spun in a silent half-circle and settled. I rested my belly against the warm grit, waiting to see if it would move again.