This morning as I stood on the East Road with my coffee, waiting for the sun to show me what sort of day we will have, I heard rustling in the treetops on the ridge.
Monkeys. I couldn’t see them but I observed the treetops for a quarter of an hour and heard the monkey(s) slowly moving to the west, getting more active as the sun kissed the canopy of branches.
Fritter sat with me and kept an eye out, too, as the sun brightened the sky behind us.
My father used to enjoy watching whales. He told me that the way to spot them is to relax your vision and let your gaze rest on the horizon, taking in the scene broadly rather than scanning specific areas. When there is movement in your field of vision, whether it is a whale or a monkey, your attention focusses on that spot.
I never did see them though I saw some more movement; dense branches waved and a limb shook as if someone jumped into a higher branch with fewer leaves.
And in the quiet, I heard some gentle hoots and puffs of breath. Like a story being told before bedtime.