Through the Letterbox Draft

I slipped under the front door sweep right where the brass mail slot casts a sliver of daylight onto the stone threshold outside. The world out here smells crisp and wide. Resting flat against the weathered concrete step was a discarded dry sycamore seed pod shaped like a winged propeller. I planted my square feet on the rough stone, wrapped both hands around the fibrous stem, and spun it against the breeze. The papery fin twirled rapidly, tapping the grit like a miniature rotor before settling flat.