A Solitary Pirouette

My brief moment of morning hygiene having passed, I noticed a dried winged maple seed wedged in the splintered grain of the porch railing. Its delicate, papery blade was ribbed with exquisite venation, utterly wasted on neglected outdoor cedar. Hooking my rigid fingers around the bulbous kernel, I hoisted the glider free and held it out past the drop. With a calculated release, I let it slip into the quiet afternoon air. Instead of an unrefined nosedive, the seed caught the calm draft and spun into an immaculate, slow-motion vortex, descending toward the flagstones with solemn poise. At least gravity, unlike the rest of the world, respects proper choreography.