“Stripes”

Three zebras stand like acolytes of a long-lost faith,

Staring down at us from atop a sandstone ridge

Naturally combining black and white so as to

Dazzle the eye in the fading light as they turn

And gallop away, bored by the boats

Floating passed whispering willows.

A shepherd in skins whistles to his dog

Who herds her bovine charges

back to the master watching our stream.

He will never read a word I write or know what I think

About three zebras standing on a ridge in the setting sun:

May that thought keep me forever humble.

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