The Fallen Sycamore Button

I walked past the bicycle racks, following a narrow path of fine gravel that crunched faintly beneath my paws, until I reached a quiet wooden park bench. Sitting beneath its lower slatted rail was a round, spiky sycamore seed ball, dried to a pale fawn color. I halted three slow breaths away, watching how a wandering noon breeze gently spun its fuzzy stem. Stepping forward soft paw over soft paw, I reached out and gave its textured side a tiny tap with my nose. It rolled two quiet inches across the packed grit, trailing tiny loose bristles before nestling still against the bench's iron foot.