Ochre looking glasses gaze wearily.
Left and right, steady she goes.
Up the branch, up the tree.
Silent, she moves, grasping at the arms
Of its tall, wooden companion.
Light steps, no rustle in the leaves.
In the dead of night,
No snaggle-toothed observers bite.
The small, bug-eyed primate feeds.
“There she is! Up in the branches!”
Beams of light laser onto her.
Hands and forearms cover its profile,
Similar to a goon caught red-handed.
As quick as the wind,
The slow loris darts off
Without a trace or a sound.