Tiny Tamarin

A golden lion tamarin is watching the lime grass shake from his patch in the zoo.
All is quiet, from clementine dusk until tangerine dawn.
Soon the glass will be stirred, and bubbles will emerge,
Hundreds of humans will descend upon his still world.
They will point and stomp and slurp sticky straws,
Screech on repeat like skinny needles in records.
Some will put round, shiny, metal discs into machines,
And make his home a little less serene.
His vulnerable, bare face, surrounded in flames,
Observe the lines of lustrous, verdant grass swaying and waving up towards the cyan sky-
A mark of familiarity, while these loose humans string about.
Though his still, composed peace, will soon be circled around,
He will keep his wise mind framed elegantly, composed, beneath his crown.
When hunger beckons, he eats pink flowers and pulpy fruits,
His curious fingers forage inside crevices and deep roots,
Like a tiny, shrunken musician, plucking a fruitful harp -
Branch to branch he lives,
Vine to vine he is summoned,
Forever wreathed in an orange mane of fire,
He has little idea how bright, rare and beautiful he is…