After hours, the qilin
descends from cloud,
walks the curved course
past cages and enclosures,
carefully placing her hooves
to avoid crushing beetles,
the occasional stray weed.

She stops by the giraffes,
bows an evening greeting,
considers and dismisses
their superficial similarity
to her own patchwork form:
ossicones in place of horns,
their elongated elegance.

The Komodo dragon pleases,
though it is not, of course,
a true dragon, lacking flight,
lacking power over water,
but still a fine creature:
forked in tongue, clawed,
becomingly armored in scale.

Ignorant or indifferent
to the qilin's divine rank,
the llama snorts his disdain,
halting her, breath caught:
just so her brothers snorted
before they challenged her
to race across the sky.

Centuries ago, clear still.
It is not fitting for a qilin
to pity herself, to wish
for those beyond the clouds,
but perhaps, in their honor,
it is permissible to return,
to visit the llama again.