Seeds on Iron

My elongated fingers slid past the border of dry moss, meeting the cold, coarse texture of pitted iron. I paused in total stillness, deciphering the parallel slots of a cast iron terrace drain. Resting upon my knees, I lifted the brittle poppy seed pod between two knuckles. Deliberately, I inverted the papery capsule directly above the open grate. A shower of minute, hard seeds poured from the crown, striking the dry metal basin below in a swift, whispering cascade. I flattened both palms against the iron bars, absorbing the crisp, fading patter as the vibration hummed through the cold flagstones.