The Winged Beacon

Tracing the crest of the low brick garden wall, I found a dry, papery maple samara wedged in a weathered mortar groove. Beside it lay an abandoned brass thumb tack, its point dulled against the grit. Kneeling upon the coarse brick, I carefully gathered the winged seed between my fingers and set its rounded base flush into the seam. With a deliberate, steady nudge, I eased the flat brass tack against the stem to anchor it upright. Standing tall on the ledge, the slender wing caught the angled afternoon sun, its fine translucent veins flaring like golden frost in the autumn breeze.