The fragile giraffe is attracted to Africa. She’s tired of wearing clown shoes at the Bronx Zoo. She studies the sky and its parade of lazy clouds. When will her mother come and rescue her? Maybe some day Mom will parachute down from a helicopter, feed peanuts to the elephants, and free all the captured creatures, taking them back home on Noah’s submarine, unless he’s traded it in for an aircraft carrier, or a rowboat the size of all mankind’s lies put together, every whopper whispered throughout history, deeper than the underground ocean and just as vast, voluminously luminous, hidden until now, at the animals’ pow-wow, as they bow-wow, hee-haw, whinny, oink, bray, cock-a-doodle-doo, trumpet, roar, caw, soar, hoot, screech, and quack with happiness, and our captive friends, both feathered and furred, with scales, tails, wings, paws, stripes, claws, four legs, bills, webbed toes, and beaks, finally find themselves fulfilled by freedom before going back to eating each other in peace.