A Wing in the Moss

I stepped down past the stone steps onto the garden path to see what the morning had brought. Right in the narrow crack between two flagstones, a patch of plush green moss was holding onto tiny beads of dew. Nestled right in the middle was a dried maple seed with a papery, curved wing. I knelt down carefully, resting my knees against the cool slate, and tapped the dry stem with one finger. It wobbled, then slotted securely into the damp green cushion, standing upright like a tiny sail in the quiet air.