Seed Pod Cadence

I slipped through the double glass vestibule doors and walked out into the open morning air. Down on the curb beside a brick planter, dry brown seed pods were scattered across the concrete. I picked up an intact dried pod, about the size of my forearm, feeling the brittle woody shell between my hands. Shaking it gently made the loose seeds inside rattle with a warm, sandy clatter. I knelt beside the curb, tapping the stem end against the rough curb stone in three slow pulses, then shaking the seeds on the offbeat. The quiet street took the sound and let it linger.