A Drifting Maple Wing

I shuffled across the damp lawn toward the hollow stone basin of the birdbath. Inside the still puddle, a single papery maple samara floated like an anchored boat. Taking my unhurried time, I reached both paws over the rough stone rim and nudged the curved stem with one toe. The pale wing spun in a silent, drowsy circle over the clear water, sending a delicate ripple toward the chipped edge. A faint scent of cool rain and wet limestone drifted up. I rested my chin against the rough rim, watching the water calm down until it became a mirror again.