The branches of chaos

The monkeys descended onto the courtyards with little but hunger in their stomachs and fire in their eyes. They were balls of furor with tails wrapping around their heads, lingering behind them like whips ready to lash out at whatever came near. The mothers would carry their young around their chest, the babies hanging on looking over shoulders at the commotion they had stirred. In the orange evening sky, while the religious establishments boomed calls to prayer over the city, the animals leapt, from buildings to trees and into the streets in packs. They were merely passing but usually brought neighborhoods to a standstill in their melee of swinging branches and chaotic march.

We feared them like all other wild animals but always watched them with our jaws slightly open. Our games would come to a halt and we would stare, apprehensive and ready to run for cover. They were leftovers of times past, relics of times and people friendlier and accepting of nature. They were now seen as no more than dangerous pests, ready to wreak havoc over balconies and power lines until mayhem stirred and the concerned humans barked them away in contempt.

The watchmen would smash their makeshift drum on the brink of nighttime to scatter the evening birds and with them, the monkeys would disappear off into the darkness, their drooping arms slinging them back into the wilderness and their slithering tails the last sights of their raucous presence.

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