Life in the Jungle

In a jungle in the south, monkeys throw things at creatures walking along the ground. Humans and zebras and donkeys and swine walk through the jungle on their daily routines, while nut shells and rocks and bits of twigs or leaves bombard them. They go about their day annoyed by the monkeys in the trees and longing to escape.

Some manage to find an escape. They make their way to the clouds where they walk above the monkeys. They go about their business, and sometimes drop things down through the clouds, but they never consider their friends down below.

“Those below are inferior,” they say, “We have found a way, fought for a way and gave up everything, to live above the monkeys, but those other creatures are stuck to the ground where they belong.”

Back on the ground, the creatures grow weary of the incessant barrage of garbage. They try to hide beneath rocks, or in caves, and they try to flee from the monkeys.

“Maybe they won’t find us on this side of the river,” they say, but the monkeys follow them everywhere.

Pebbles and shells rain down through the sky, whether they hide here or there. Sometimes, they look to the sky and see their fellows among the clouds.

“Why are they free of this trouble?” the ground-bound creatures ask. “They only think of themselves, but are free to live in peace.”

But the jungle knows something they do not. Even the monkeys know it. The ground is solid and unmoving, but the clouds could break through at any time. When the cloud-walkers least expect it, the ground beneath them will give way and they will fall. And no one will catch them. But on the ground, the creatures walk with confidence. Though the missiles never cease to fall, the ground is firm.