One night, when the moon was low, a young monkey thought he might pluck it from the sky like a fruit and bring it to his troupe as a gift. He climbed a tree and reached up to grab the moon in both hands. But the moon was not there, and the monkey toppled to the ground with a squeal of frustration.

Looking up from the hard earth, the monkey saw his mistake. The moon had not been close to that tree at all, but rather another one further on. The monkey climbed the tree, but again the moon evaded his grasp, its glow visible through the foliage beyond. “It keeps moving,” the monkey complained, and he set off in pursuit, swinging from vine to vine, faster and faster, trying to overtake the elusive moon.

And then, suddenly, he stopped. He had spotted the moon below him, resting on the surface of a pond, brilliant and full. This was his chance. The monkey eased himself onto an overhanging branch and gently lowered his arm. But the moment his fingers touched the water, the moon shrank away. When he withdrew, it rippled across the surface again.

The monkey cursed. The moon was there within his grasp. He could not give it up, not now, not until he had given all he could give. And so the monkey let go of the overhanging branch and dropped head first into the black water.

© Richard Parkin 2025

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