In a zoo in a strange land
a zebra stands
flaunting the bright stripes
of a collective band
against the russett tussle of leaves
that exit trees before a cold wind.
He is far from the windswept plain
of his dreams; that parched place
where drought adapted trees wane,
until at last renewed by rain,
an over-night fantasy of growth
quicker than evening-tide.
Here, where Autumn has a strange glow,
bare trees, steal the dapple from his coat.
Knee deep in a pile of red leaves
he yields the life blood of his soul,
flowing from a freedom remembered