Rain at the Zoo

A giraffe presented its head to me, tilting it sideways, reaching out its long gray tongue. I gave it my wheat cracker while small drops of rain pounded us both.  Lightning cracked open the sky.  Zebras zipped across the field. It was springtime in Michigan.  I watched the giraffe shuffle itself backwards, toward the herd, its bone- and rust-colored fur beading with water.  The entire mix of animals stood away from the trees.  A lone emu shook its round body hard and squawked.  It ran along the fence line, jerking open its wings. Perhaps it was trying to shake away the burden of water or indulging an urge to fly.  I can’t know. I have no idea what about their lives these animals love or abhor.  They are captured or born here for us, and we come.  It’s true.  This is my favorite field.