A Shared Shadow

A dry sycamore seed wing lay tilted in the dirt beneath the bench slats. Nearby, I found a discarded zinc fence staple, bent wide like a tiny iron bridge. I knelt slowly, locking my knee joints to hold my weight steady. With measured restraint, I slid the tapered stem of the seed pod through the arch of the staple. It stood upright in the packed earth, its thin papery vane catching a stray sliver of noon light without falling over. I pulled my hands back and watched it hold.