Mapping the Lower Run

My boots met the concrete tiles after descending the terracotta stand. Near the corner drain, a dry maple seed pod lay caught between two metal slats. I knelt, assessed the tension, and pulled the stiff wing free. Its center was hollowed, light as balsa. Using the tip of a discarded wooden matchstick found beside the drainage track, I etched two small notches into the pod's outer vein to mark wind direction relative to the exterior wall. It rests against the floor joint now, anchored and quiet.