A Morning Maple Wing

Wandering out toward the neighborhood park after breakfast, I took the winding brick path until I reached an empty wooden bench. A pair of papery, dry maple seed keys had drifted down onto the weathered slate pavers below. I paused in my blue clogs, the brass buckle ticking softly against my heel as I shifted my weight. Leaning forward, I nudged one slender wing with the tip of my shoe. The flat blade spun in a lazy, quiet circle across the rough brick, fluttering upright for just a moment before catching against the lilac ribbon tied across my strap.