There is a massive fig tree in my backyard. Colossal. We brought it over from my husband's family's yard, well, when he was still alive and able to travel. About a quarter of it has bent into these beautiful and graceful limbs.
For all its beauty, and the fantastic shade it provides, this tree produces fruit that I've never gotten that excited about. (I honestly don't remember Dale even caring about figs that much. Why he was so eager to get the tree here is still a mystery.) Every year, there are pounds of figs that go uneaten, even unpicked, because I can't/won't eat that many. I've come up with a fictitious restaurant called The Fallen Fig, and am talking about it over on Facebook. Birds, squirrels, deer, raccoons, and opossums are eating well.
These are those curving branches, with Tap for scale.