by Nicholas DiBenedetto
Maple sends her fruits out in an arc, moving like a miniature-maker at work. It’s an art. Encircled by the cursive Wind, they autorotate along, whirligigs in an untwirled twister. Maple notices one through her hair, strung by the rollercoaster air. It seems still for a moment, set like bone, set like the sights of some cursorial thing on a potential threat. My hand follows its helicopter descent until it rests in the creases of my palm. I crisp open the samara and find myself in fertile company. The whirligigs are turning.
Nicholas DiBenedetto is an undergraduate at the University of Connecticut. He is double majoring in English and EEB.