Ouranopithecus (Borneo) You, forest man, orang utan I’m asking where did you go? Fourteen million years ago you joined us and now you’re leaving? I think not. There was a man called ourano pithecus, an old forager in the treetops. Look, an old Napoleon grown shrunk and wooly he would cast himself from limb to limb in the great green empire of the jungle gleaning fruit and bark and leaves and crunchy arthropods. From dawn to dusk he did his thing. Together with his wife, ouranopithecus, he went on living uneventfully, slowly crafting nests of dense and knotted foliage in the treetops raising babies in the forest canopy, drinking of the mist that matted his fur and juiced his limbs, watching the rivers roll by their succulent fishes flopping silver speared by the sun’s savage blades of light. And when he sang, his voice seduced the seeds’ hard vegetal bodies to split and sprout wild small tendrils that swang into the treetops like monkeys. Oh you ageless wizard of the most ancient forests of the world, fourteen million years ago you joined us and now you’re leaving? I beg to disagree. The plantations eat you up, their fires erasing entire islands of you, the agrochemical blaze turning your gently woven nest to a toxic tangle, that dry industry evaporating the dew that mists your hundred million eyes, scorching the liquid of your song that always woke the birds and kissed the trees to life. No, my friend, we’ll stop those motherfuckers from destroying you if it’s the last thing we ever do.