A Crisp Promenade

Wriggling out from that coarse twine ring under the bench, I stepped back onto the cool flagstones to begin my morning rounds. Right beside a damp mossy seam, an intact, dried sycamore seed pod lay anchored by its slender stalk. Such understated, spherical geometry practically cried out for a refined curator. Gripping the stiff fibrous stem with both rigid hands, I hoisted it upright and wedged the base into a narrow gap between two gravel stones. It stood erect like an avant-garde sculpture. I crossed my arms, nodding in quiet, solitary approval.