On a farm in Sonoma County,

which the owner has given over

to African animals - gazelles, antelope,

birds - stands a placid giraffe

almost unaccountable here, improbable,

his head up to the branches of a large oak.

He stands still, alone, quiet, chewing.

At the end of his long neck, his head

is unmoving, except for the mouth.

He has short, knobby horns,

a little fuzzed. What does he

think about here in a place so strange,

so different? Who can tell, but one is sure

his thoughts are high thoughts

in a giraffe sort of way.

I have no doubt.

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