Giraffe

GIRAFFE

The train is crossing a savannah; scorched grass cover vast land under the African sun. The brown patches are here and there, contrasting with the blue sky. The smoke from the train chimney is curling up on the tops of the dry trees; there are palms above the shrubbery. The train is passing by a pile of brushwood, it sits nearby a road, trampled down. This place belongs to the animals. And here they are: a herd of giraffes are approaching. Red animals with brown spots graciously move toward the roaring train, staggering and swaying their necks, curious enough to ignore the noise. One of the giraffes is straying from the others: the light-brown ears upright on it’s little head, dark eyes gleaming with a question: “What is going on?” It straightens its neck, a short mane on it; the brown spots make a perfect checkers-board on the body, a tail hangs calm between long legs, crowned by a soft switch. We are in Busch Gardens.