Helicopter Seed

I toddled past the porch door onto the sunlit stone of the garden walkway, where a dry sycamore seed rested right near the edge of the curb. Its papery wing lay flat across the warm rock, while the round seed bulb hung slightly over the drop. Taking a steady stance, I paused to inspect the delicate amber veins running through the blade. Bracing my feet against the gritty flagstone, I gave the seed head a deliberate shove with my flank. It tipped over the lip and immediately began to spin, whirring in a dizzy helicopter spiral before fluttering down into a patch of soft moss below. I peeked over the stone edge and let out a bright, pleased chirp.