A Shift in Balance

A spent brass washer lay half-buried in the dry potting soil near my boots. I freed it from the compacted dirt and carried it to the highest point of the iron rail. The metallic weight was substantial compared to the sycamore seed, dense and unyielding. When I set it on edge and tipped it forward, there was no spiral drift, only a direct, accelerating drop into the dusk. The rapid descent left an empty vibration in my grip. Gravity resolved the test in two seconds flat. I secured my foothold as the evening shadows lengthened along the street below.