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.