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.