Four young ones left in the same season, from four troops, before any of them were named. The keepers do not know why. The troops do not speak of it — not the reason, not the almost-names.
Happening now
Every morning, someone sweeps the empty branch at the grooming circle. No one is assigned. Someone always does it.
What may come
Kesi watches the high branches for a face she hasn't tasted yet. Some in the troop believe she is watching for this one.
“Zola counted four troops' young ones at morning roll-call and three at the evening count — no, four missing, one per troop, all unnamed, all gone between counts. Kavi tells it without an ending. Hush sings the lullaby still. Skye sings loudest for the empty branches. And every morning, someone sweeps them clean. No one is assigned. Someone always does it.”
because an empty branch gets swept clean every morning, and someone always does it
because the troop never speaks the almost-name, and that silence is love
because the rarest thing in the canopy is a story with no ending yet
The High Canopy
The great apes, where the light lands first: chimpanzees who scheme, bonobos who forgive, gorillas who remember, orangutans who have seen everything twice. What happens up here decides what happens everywhere below.