Under a crisp vast sky

Twisting, writhing, slithering out of view
The bough  meandered purposefully
Playing hide and seek with the cloudless sky
Obscured by an inquisitive primate

As she crouched on a fragile-looking branch
Her delicate, expressive face tense with anticipation
And wide brown eyes lost in the furrows of her forehead
Her long, flexible tail began to quiver

While the rest of her body lay still.
Then she began to swing;
Her powerful arms swinging her sinewy body
From one elusive bough to another,

Almost effortlessly.                                            
The bough continues upward-
Branching into millions, or so it seems,
Each ending in a microscopic point,

Tastefully garnished with dark, open leaves.
A bird, a lowly baby pigeon,
Dyed with tints of blue and grey,
Peers furtively from his perch,

As his mummy eggs him on,
To unfurl his nascent wings.
He surveys the world around him;                
The sky is vast, crisp, overly frigid,                                        

And he decides he’s not quite ready to fly.
Ants scurry purposefully in single file
Along the contours of the ancient, knobbly birthplace of the bough;
Their movements robot-like, mechanical and resolute.

Our lives pass within the blink of an eye
Quick flashes of light in the archives of time
But the bough lives for an eternity, forever and ever
Twisting, turning, meandering and coiling
Through the yawning depths of time.