Bearthright

Groove, Saola, groove as the blond-headed rice in Niño's sonorous, wet breeze— the tongues clicking and licking in curved mimicry of the feathered vessels anchored to its trade— in unsoiled ivory footprints, in the soil of your sons.
Orangutan, your green, meniscus pupils the shade of leaf-shade and lightened like the boneless fingers of Indian deltas. It shocks like the glaucous crown of bird-of-paradise being chewed upon by the dirt to see something that, like you, thirsts for leaves, not with appetite, but to feed the lack thereof in more violent, orange children.
To you the Pangolin, the pang goes into my mandolin carved from your unbreakable terra-cotta shales. And the aesthetic of your roses-enclosed dome. And to twist the sinews of that allegory, we, through pipe-smoke, say they aren't broke. 
Groove Saola while your name still sings like a sisters name, like some person's name, for until now they were unsure as night that you were an animal.
But while you are my sister— and you, Orangutan, and you, Pangolin— so I too bray to over-coldness and over-warmth, and I can tell you that this veinless leaf seldom verbatim browns. While you are my sister, so I too am an animal. 
Hide, for your hide has dyed the pigments all but of that of which it is worth, but cirth, your cirth is defined by succouring earth— despite your daughter's dearth— a right birth, is succouring earth is a birth-right.
Are they coffins or seeds we see to sow below—my sister knows— we'll only know when they grow. . . . or not, strange, from here we would've have sawn— sworn, it was wood.