The Whirling Seed

I carried a dry, winged maple seed to the highest flat cap of the stone garden wall. Slipping out past the front porch and down the brick steps had left me eager to stretch my legs. Bracing my boots against the rough mortar, I held the seed high overhead, took a deep breath, and let it fall. It caught the midday air immediately, spinning in a rapid, dizzying spiral. I dropped low, matching its drift along the ledge, and swept my hand forward to catch the stem an inch before it struck the stone. Timing that wild descent was exhilarating, and I immediately turned back to climb the wall again.