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.