Twirling Seed

A pair of dry, papery maple seeds rested in the corner of the wooden bench, joined at their woody little stems. I carefully snapped one propeller free, feeling the delicate ribbed veins between my fingers. Stepping to the edge of the smooth timber slat, I held the seed high above my head and opened my hand. It tipped forward, caught the morning air, and began to whirl in a tight, dizzying spiral. Down and down it twirled, spinning like a tiny fan until it touched down softly against a patch of green moss beside the gravel path. I knelt at the edge, watching it settle.