They stay out in desert areas, where there’s no water for miles. Nothing’s dry like miles of desert. And sometimes windy too, between the valleys, on exposed peaks of sand and dirt, it’s like wrapping your lips around the blow-drier and trying to breathe in deep.
A zebra’s tongue keeps escaping from his mouth, thick pink fleshy zebra tongue trying to find a drop of water on his own nose. Out in the dry dusty dirt-field, he’ll brown-nose the camel folk he passes for a sip or two from storage when the sun reddens the spaces between his black stripes. He steps his hoofs carefully, doesn’t trip on tumbleweeds skittering across the sand. Sits in the shade of a shrub and eventually sleeps.
I didn’t know about zebras until I saw one at the zoo last year. He was lying on his side in the dirt, his legs all sprawled out and still. I thought he was dead, but you said he was only sleeping, so I believed you.