By late morning the apple tree had a line. The sloths hung in a patient row, each taking one leaf down, while the keeper offered hammocks of moss and asked nobody to overtake the minute still choosing its branch.
We asked at the kiosk by the orchard. "I stood behind a guest who was still nodding to a leaf," said a woman with a paper bag. "The minute ahead of me sat down as if it had a ticket. I reached the grass around tea."
The park keeper pinned a card to the trunk: one leaf per guest, hammock first, and please do not pass a neighbor still greeting the bark. A day later the same sloth returned, left the afternoon on a lower branch, and the tree looked calmer than the path.