The Winged Seed

A dry maple seed had drifted across the porch boards, wedging itself between two planks near the top step. I stepped forward slowly to inspect the curved papery wing. Its veins ran in delicate, branching ridges, stiff yet nearly weightless. Kneeling upon my plinth, I eased the lower tip of my bow beneath the rounded pod, levering it free from the seam. The balance was remarkably true, tapering into a thin vane not unlike split fletching. I smoothed its crinkled edge flat against the weathered grain, letting the quiet morning air test its lift.