To Giraffes

You should be lonely.

 

And tired. Tired of the tall jokes. “How’s the weather up there?” Tired of the questions, “How do you sleep?” Tired of the looks the baby rhinos give as you make your awkward drinking motions and the momma rhino says, “Don’t stare, dear” as she keeps staring. Tired of the way, behind your back, the dromedaries imitate your walk, exaggerating their steps, leaving aside all your grace.Tired of always being above the shade.

Oh sure, the humans love you, but with love like this, who needs enemies? Poached for your tails and your skins and meat. If they keep you alive, they ship you to cold countries, which despite the never-ending supply of leaves and the rotating enrichment activities, is still a cage. The children point and stare. You don’t know what to do with them, for them, about them.

Even in France, delivered to the King Charles X and living in the Jardin des Plantes. The lines to see you were the longest in Europe and soon, the Parisians were walking around in brown and white reticulated coats, painting the walls of their dining rooms to match you. Mere flattery you say, until the next new thing, until they grow tired of looking up.

You dream of an empty savannah, no lions to fight, no humans to step over. The sun rises, the light a golden thread between grass and sky. The acacia tree waits for you. You can smell the leaves at the very top, tender and sweet, the size of the wish you think but never make.