There is naught I could compare thee with,
no match in mind, creature of foreign land.
Your rhythmic stride, grace comparative,
eccentricity, tree-tops you command.
With lashes long, soft, liquid eyes, light brown,
sky-scraper tall, you view your sun-baked earth.
Silhouette odd against the sky, sundown,
Oh, nature’s tallest giant, spotted girth.
An evolutionary enigma,
precariously you walk in your space,
not a spot out of place or a stigma,
the definition of long-legged grace.
May your numbers never be cut in half.
The Earth will cry if we lose the giraffe.
© 2016, RissRyker518. All rights reserved.
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