Stew Quixote

Last night I was biking home at sunset. I'd just left the State Street area where I'd met friend AB for coffee, and having doubled back to the Med Center, I was now well along my usual route home. All seemed completely familiar -- from the timed lights at Fuller Street to the bump coming off the curb at Maiden Lane Bridge -- until I beheld this sight:


A giraffe in Ann Arbor.

I could hardly believe it.

In my time here in Ann Arbor, all nearly six years of it, I'd never seen such a thing. I pulled on the brakes and quietly set a foot down.

The great beast raised on its haunches. Its neck telescoped to the top of the nearest tree, and with a slight and gentle oscillation its head bobbed back and forth as lips thieved the choicest leaves.

From where I was atop the bike, I heard not a sound, but in the fading twilight I discerned the movements of the jaw, the slow mastication of leaves that provided the displaced beast its nourishment.

The giraffe stopped chewing. Its head turned, its eyes trained on me. It looked left, right, then right at me again. I stopped. Had it heard something? Was a giraffe ever known to charge a man? A car passed behind it, and its head pivoted away. An ear flicked once, twice, and when nothing materialized, it turned again to the tree and resumed eating.

I snapped the picture, balanced myself on the bike, and with stealthy step pedaled the rest of the way home.