Maple Seeds

I hear tapping.

Spading black dirt for sweet potato plants,
I wonder if the garage roof's metal is
expanding under warm sun.
I look up.

Maple seeds afloat,
the air full of them spinning
furiously like blades torn
from squadrons of helicopters,
sailing down one hundred feet
from the top of the maple next door,
pelting the roof,
the currant bushes,
the sweet potato plants,
me.

I can’t look away.
Face upward,
entranced,
laughing softly.
What a treat.
Source of the tapping
found.

These are not
the small, soft, green wings
that came down with
their stems in rain storms.

These are hard,
dried to beige,
fat, heavy heads
that can lodge
in a rosebush leaf
or pierce a horseradish plant.

I keep looking up to see
if they’re all down yet.
Before I sweep the walks.