A Higher Perch

I reached out, planting my knuckles against the rough, furrowed bark of the street oak. The trunk rose solid from the curb. Deliberate grip... hand over foot, I hauled my weight up past the iron root guard to a thick, horizontal bough. The timber barely flexed beneath my stance. Kneeling low in the fork of the branch, I brushed a small cluster of dry, curled leaves clear of the bark groove. They drifted down without a sound toward the pavement. From up here, the entire lane opens wide. Pedestrians pass beneath in steady rhythms, completely unaware. A solid vantage. The wood holds firm.