old books

i have shelves full of old books,
cardboard covers,
cloth stretched thin, dusty,
dented corners,
yellowed pages,
faded ink.

i comb through them each morning,
searching for something -
i'm not sure what -
something exotic, something wild,
something that bounds across open plains,
that pads stealthily through the forests,
that crouches in the shadows
something that howls beneath the full moon,

i have shelves full of old books,
a zoo, of sorts,
all of us searching for something
we once took for granted.